


We Didn't Light It

by orphan_account



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, Flashbacks, M/M, Masturbation Interruptus, Masturbation in Shower, Memory Loss, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Road Trips, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-05
Updated: 2014-08-21
Packaged: 2018-02-07 12:54:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1899765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Steve eventually finds him at a roadside diner a couple of miles out from Boise. Bucky, for his part, doesn’t think he’s been trying that hard to hide. </i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>‘Jeez,’ he says, as Steve barrels through the glass door and over to the booth that Bucky is tucked into (far corner, back to the wall, clear view of all entrances). ‘You pull a guy outta one damn river and he wants to be your best friend.’</i></p><p> </p><p>(Or, a story that is mostly sleepy drives along highways, slightly awkward nights in motels, conversations, flashbacks, and Bucky's arm unfortunately being a little bit Dr. Strangelove.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note: I've written a lot of this story, but not all of it. If I had to guess, I'd say it will be about seven or eight chapters long, five of which I've written already. I'm going to start posting, bit by bit, and hopefully won't hit any roadblocks! 
> 
> The 'mature' rating is for stuff in later chapters, and the rating might even have to be bumped up later towards the end, I'm not sure yet.

Steve eventually finds him at a roadside diner a couple of miles out from Boise. Bucky, for his part, doesn’t think he’s been trying that hard to hide. 

‘Jeez,’ he says, as Steve barrels through the glass door and over to the booth that Bucky is tucked into (far corner, back to the wall, clear view of all entrances). ‘You pull a guy outta one damn river and he wants to be your best friend.’

‘Bucky,’ Steve says, his face open and etched in relief. Bucky studies him. He knows that the spy and the soldier with wings are outside, watching from the thoroughly conspicuous nondescript car. But Steve did come in alone. 

Bucky takes a sip from his Coke, not taking his eyes off of him. He is standing beside the table, throwing his shadow over Bucky and blocking his view of the door to the kitchen. Bucky doesn’t like it. 

‘You may as well sit down,’ he says. 

Steve does, sliding into the booth. Bucky has a flash of a Steve who looked crowded by booth’s like these, as if they swallowed him. This Steve barely fits between the bench and the table. ‘You know me,’ he says, imploring. 

‘I do.’ Bucky can see the kitchen again, and he settles a little. He ordered some lunch a while ago, is still waiting on it. Can’t quite remember what he’s getting. Doesn’t mind. ‘You’re Steve Rogers. Born July 4th, 1918. Grew up sickly and under-nourished during the Great Depression, but became the first - and only - of a new breed of enhanced super soldiers in World War Two. Took on the Nazis and HYDRA along with your elite squad, the Howling Commandos, you shared a particularly close bond with your childhood friend, Bucky Barnes. That’s me, apparently.’ 

Steve sighs. ‘You visited the Smithsonian then,’ he says. 

‘I did. Had a hell of a time getting passed the metal detectors.’ Not really, but he says it anyway.

‘I’ll bet you did.’ Steve rubs the back of his neck, looking at Bucky like he can’t stop drinking in the sight of him. Bucky doubts there’s much good to see. He’s been bouncing around somewhat aimlessly for the past several months, just staying off the radar. Sleeping where he can and eating on dubiously acquired cash. His hair is even longer than it was the last time Steve saw him, still hanging unkempt around his face. He has thick stubble and faded blue jeans and a red hoodie that covers his arm. He keeps his left hand in his pocket a lot. 

But Steve is looking at him like he’s a sight for sore eyes rather than the cause of them. 

‘You gave us quite the run around, Buck,’ Steve says. 

‘Did I?’ Bucky drains his glass empty and signals the waitress for a refill. He’s been drinking a lot of Coke, lately. And coffee. ‘I wasn’t… specifically hiding.’ 

Out of the corner of his eye, Bucky can see the flash of light on metal in the car outside, and he hears Steve’s phone beep in his pocket. The server wanders over and pops a full glass of Coke on the table in front of him, clearing away the empty one. 

‘Anything for you?’ she asks Steve, who looks at Bucky questioningly. 

‘I just ordered lunch,’ he says. ‘You could get something. I’ll be here a while.’ 

‘Just a root beer,’ Steve says. The waitress nods and goes. 

After a long pause, Bucky says: 'You got a text.'

Steve doesn't touch his phone, just folds his hands on the table between them, leaning forward. 'I'm pretty sure its rude to check your phone while you're having lunch with an old friend,' he says. 

Bucky scoffs. 'I don't know anything about that,' he replies. 'Surprised you do.'

'You know how my ma was about manners.' Steve looks directly into Bucky's eyes at that, clearly looking for any flash of recognition. Bucky keeps his face deliberately blank. He can't remember anything about Steve's mom or her manners, but he's not going to let Steve know one way or the other. He has an image of shoulder length ashen blonde curls on a white pillowcase that he thinks maybe he associates with Steve's mom. It's not a happy association. He doesn't linger on it. 

'It's probably from your back-up in that black Honda Civic outside, anyway,' Bucky shrugs, fiddling with the straw on his drink with his real hand. 'Subtle, by the way.'

Steve's lips tighten. 'I was going to come after you alone, but they wouldn't let me.'

'Because I'm dangerous?' 

'No, because they're my friends.'

Bucky frowns, and watches the entrance because he doesn't want to watch Steve watching him. He lifts his Coke up and catches the straw between his lips, sipping absently. In his peripheral vision, he sees the kitchen doors swing open, and the waitress approach, carrying a plate and another drink. 

She puts the root beer down in front of Steve, and a plate in front of Bucky. He says thank you, but doesn't look at it until she walks away. 

'Hungry?' Steve asks, and Bucky glances down at his meal. It's a massive chilli dog, with sides of fries, salad and bacon. Now that he's looking at it, he thinks he vaguely remembers ordering it. 

'Starving,' he answers truthfully, picking up a fry. 'Alright, I'll eat now. You can do your bit. Try to get me to turn myself into the authorities or whatever the hell it is you want from me.'

He holds the chilli dog with both hands. Hopefully no one is watching them too closely. 

Steve lets out a long breath. 'I'm just really glad to see you, Bucky.'

Bucky uses his metal fingers to shovel some chilli into his mouth that was threatening to slip out the tail end of his hot dog. 

'Do you remember anything? _Anything_ about... your life before the war? You and me?'

Swallowing, Bucky says: 'I told you, I'm eating.'

'Fine,' Steve mutters, rubbing the heel of his hand over his eye. His phone beeps again, insistently this time. Someone is calling.

'Go ahead,' Bucky says around a mouthful of fries. He really was starving. He thinks he ate at some point yesterday, though. Most likely. 

Steve pulls his phone out of his trouser pocket. 'Hey, Sam,' he says, turning away slightly so that his shoulder is facing Bucky, who's eyes narrow. He's leaving himself exposed. It's dumb. 

Bucky taps him on the wrist, and Steve looks at him questioningly. With his metal hand, he points at Steve's eyes with two fingers, then points at himself. Steve's brows draw together, but he nods, understanding, and turns back to face Bucky front on. 

'Sorry Sam, what was that?'

' _Natasha says you've got five more minutes and she's coming in._ ' Bucky can hear the voice through the phone without effort. He's pleased: he has both names now. That's good. It's an advantage, of sorts. 

'Tell her that everything is fine in here,' Steve says. 

' _She says that you failed to check in, and that means you must be in danger._ '

'Is this because I didn't read her SMS?'

' _Her term was “failure to follow protocol”._ '

'If I message her back, will she give me some more time?'

There's a brief moment of muffled voices that Bucky can't make out, and then: ' _You've got fifteen minutes if you follow protocol._ ' 

'Thanks, Sam.'

' _We're getting antsy out here, man._ '

Steve hangs up. 'They're just worried you'll murder me,' he says to Bucky, not looking up from his phone as he navigates into messages. He grins in amusement at something the screen, and taps something in reply before hitting send. 

'I'm tryin' to go cold turkey on that,' Bucky says, swallowing down the last bite of his chilli dog. He's eating too quickly, shoveling food into his body like its fuel. He can't remember how to eat to enjoy it. 

'Good. I appreciate it,' Steve smirks. Phone back in his pocket, he rests his hands on the table again. Bucky can see that he's deliberately making himself vulnerable. 'Will you answer my question? Whether you remember anything?'

Bucky wonders what the outcome is here. He's not accustomed to exposing himself at all, but at the same time, he sees no real reason to lie to Steve: aside from the simple fact that lying means that people can't know you, and if they don't know you, they can't exploit you. 

'I remember flashes, here and there,' he says, stabbing his fork into a piece of tomato and practically gulping it down. 'Nothing yet I've been particularly happy about.'

'Do you remember me?'

'… Not consciously,' Bucky says. 'But somewhere in there. I can see what your face is going to do before it does it, I know what you're going to say the moment you open your mouth. Everything is like a shape, an impression in time that precedes you.'

'Oh,' Steve says. 

'But don't get hung up on it,' Bucky mutters into his strip of bacon. 'Anyway, what do you want?'

'I want you to come home with me.'

'And?'

'And nothing.'

Bucky narrows his eyes. 'I doubt that. There's always something else. Usually involving needles.'

Rubbing his temple, Steve admits: 'Our people – good people – will want to run a few tests on you, probably. Just to make sure HYDRA didn't do anything... _else_.'

'What about if I don't want to go with you?' 

'Nat will shoot you with a tracker as you leave, but otherwise you'll be left alone, so long as you don't start killing people.' 

Bucky is surprised by how much he likes the idea of someone tracing him. He's finding it hard to be accountable for his own actions: the good sort of hard. But still, he would appreciate a fallback, in case he slips. 

But still... 

'Where's home?' 

On the table, Steve moves his hands so they're palms up. He hasn't even touched his root beer. 'Washington, for now. But, if you prefer, it can be Brooklyn, again. After we sort things out.' 

'Okay,' Bucky says, not mentioning that Brooklyn has no significance to him as far as he's aware. He thinks he maybe killed a guy there, once. But then, they wiped him after every mission, so he's not sure. 'I'll come with you.' 

Steve seems to lose all tension in his body at once, his face opening into a relieved smile. 'That's great, Buck--' 

'– On two conditions,' interrupts Bucky, holding up his hand. 'First, we travel by road.'

'What?' Steve blinks. 'Why? That'll take days.' 

'We in a hurry?' 

'No, but, why? We could call in a jet and be there in a couple of hours, Bucky.' 

'Yeah,' replies Bucky, tapping his metal finger against the rim of his glass. 'And then I'm being strapped to something metal and scanned and pumped with chemicals before I even decide if I can trust you or not. No thanks.' 

Steve closes his eyes. 'I just want to help.' 

'I'm getting that impression, which is why I'm going along with you. But better safe than sorry, in my experience.'

'Alright,' Steve says. 'What is the second condition?' 

'You lose the entourage.' 

'No.' The response is immediate. 'You can trust them.'

'I can't trust anyone.' 

It's not that Bucky has anything against the two outside, per se. The flying one, Sam, had sounded friendly enough on the phone. And from his experiences, he knows that Natasha is a fighter after his own heart. 

'I don't want to be outnumbered,' Bucky insists. 'If it's just one on one, I can get away if I need to.' 

'You make it sound like we're kidnapping you.' 

Bucky shakes his head. 'You make it sound like I know you're not.' 

Steve is silent for a minute, thinking. 'Okay,' he says after a while. 'We do it your way, Bucky. I'll just go outside and talk to my friends.' 

'No. No, you do it here, where I can see and hear you. Just call and tell them to go home, no tricks, and you'll meet up with them back in Washington.' 

'They're not going to like it.' 

'Fine,' Bucky says. 'As long as they do it.' 

Steve pulls out his cell. 

*

Sometimes Bucky remembers his life as if it has title cards: orientations in typewriter script tapping out across the screen in his mind's eye. 

J A K A R T A , I N D O N E S I A : 1 9 6 6 . 

Complete with metallic tapping sounds on each letter. It is a piece of cultural convention that has slipped in there, at some point, and he doesn't know how. He can't remember the last time he watched a movie. 

But that doesn't matter. Jakarta, 1966:

This memory isn't one of Bucky's. This is the Winter Soldier's memory. It is in black and white, the only color the red smear of blood on his hands. 

The day is breezy and hot, making sweat bead on his brow and dry almost immediately. The Winter Soldier is not in his uniform – he's wearing an open white shirt with a cotton vest underneath, and slacks. He has gloves on and a surgical mask. Some part of him, something beneath the programming is trembling at the surface of his consciousness and finding something vaguely amusing. 

Something about the Winter Soldier -- cold and hard, like the ice caps and the Russian winter – lounging by the beach in the hot sun at a plastic table with the shadow of a palm tree casting some small measure of shade and stopping him from burning. It's incongruous. It's funny. 

He's a block away from the United States embassy, and can hear the sounds of shouting and stamping and gun shots. Something explodes, a Molotov cocktail probably, and then the fire starts. For them, it's civil unrest. For the Winter Soldier, it's a cover, a chance to slip into the embassy unseen. 

He peels off his gloves, scaling the side of the building behind him and staying low on the roof top as he dashes alongside the commotion. There is a burning car below. He drops the gloves in there, and jumps down into the crowd. There is a military man raising his gun – the Winter Soldier reaches out and pulls it from his hands, cracks the butt of the rifle into the man's head with force and sees him go down. 

No one else is looking at the Winter Soldier. They are running, or demonstrating, or being rounded off. He is a ghost in the crowd, slipping through smoke and flames until he's inside the gates and dashing into the halls of the embassy. 

There is a man in here – the Target. The Winter Soldier does not know his name or rank or what he does, aside from the fact that he is trying to capitalize on the anti-communist movement in this country for American gain, and that he is threat to the motherland. 

The man never becomes anything in terms of history, not even a footnote. The Winter Soldier erases him with a bullet through the forehead. The shot isn't heard above the others being fired outside, and the Winter Soldier's metal hand leaves no fingerprints on the army issue gun. 

He leaves it near the body, and climbs out the window, leaving as quickly as he came. When the Target's corpse is noticed, it is buried in a mass grave which is never uncovered. 

The Target goes under the earth as the Winter Soldier is put back into deep freeze. 

*

Bucky jerks awake, feeling frozen to his bones. His head snaps up from where it was resting on his shoulder, and he blinks. 

They're still driving down the interstate, nothing but dry grassland, sparse shrubs and the odd road-sign passing by. Flanked by distant low mountain ranges which are growing dark and gray as the sun begins to set. Steve doesn't notice him wake up. 

'Don't worry, he's just sleeping right now,' he's saying. The phone is sitting in his lap, and he has headphones in. Bucky can't hear the other half of the conversation. 

'...Maybe because he's tired, Natasha?'

Bucky is careful not to move beyond that initial jerking awake, and tries to subtly settle into a natural position again, watching Steve out of the corner of his eye. 

He shouldn't have fallen asleep. He wasn't planning on it. If there's one way to let your guard down... But then, it had been so warm in the car, and the scenery outside had been so monotonous, and then they hadn't had much to talk about, so Steve had sat something small and shiny into a little dock and played music that Bucky didn't know. And Bucky hadn't meant to close his eyes, but after a point, they just wouldn't stay open. 

The music has stopped now, and there is cool air blasting out of the air conditioner in the car. That must be why Bucky is so cold. He shivers in the onslaught. 

'We're about an hour out from Salt Lake City,' Steve says into the phone. 'I was thinking we'd stop there to get something for dinner, then just drive on overnight.' There is a pause. ' _No,_ I don't need a power nap, Nat. It'll be fine. We'll get a motel if Bucky wants to stop.' Another pause, then a laugh. 'Yeah, or that. Are you home yet?'

Bucky pulls his hoodie closer around his body against the chill, hoping it looks like he's just shifting in his sleep. Apparently it does, because Steve still doesn't glance over at him. 

'Oh, that sounds good, can you record that for me?' (Pause) 'No, I don't like watching things on the laptop.' (Pause, and an annoyed huff) 'Yeah, I know it's the same thing... No, I don't have a Netflix subscription. What is Netflix? People keep mentioning it.' 

The hoodie still isn't doing much to warm Bucky, and he can feel goosebumps rising all over his skin. He doesn't really feel _fear_ anymore, but if there are two things that he really does not like, it is heights and the cold. 

'Okay, we'll set that up when we get back.' (Pause) 'Yes, I promise everything is fine. You get back to making dinner. … Yep, I'll call again tomorrow. Alright, bye.'

Taking one hand off the wheel, Steve pulls the headphones out of his ears, and puts the phone into the cup holder between them. 

He glances over at Bucky, and seems surprised to see Bucky looking back. 

'Oh, you're awake,' he says, smiling.

Bucky nods. 

'Good nap?'

'No,' Bucky says plainly. He digs his hands further into the pockets of his hoodie. 

Steve's brow furrows. 'Are you alright?'

'Bad dreams,' Bucky says, and sighs. 'Why the hell is it so _cold_?'

'Oh, sorry.' Steve immediately reaches out and turns off the air-conditioner. The relief is instantaneous, and Bucky feels a tightness in his chest loosen. 

'Thanks,' he says, and shifts around a bit, rolling his shoulders. He's not sure how long they've been driving exactly. It was early afternoon by the time a Quinjet picked up Sam and Natasha from outside that diner, leaving the car for Steve to take. Bucky had watched from a short distance as both of them alternately argued with Steve about leaving, and hugged him goodbye, chiding and cautioning him in equal measure. 

Since the sun is going down now, they must have driven on for several hours since Bucky drifted off. He rubs his eyes; he _really_ hadn't meant to lose himself for that long in the company of a man he barely knows. 

'Did you hear what I was saying to Nat about stopping for dinner?'

Bucky nods, but says: 'You gave her our location.'

'… Yes.' Steve glances at him. 'She's not tracking us. She's at home making dumplings with Sam.'

They're moving into slightly more populous areas now – the freeway flanked not just with grassland, but also outer suburban areas and malls. Bucky doesn't reply, instead letting an uncomfortable silence thicken the air of the car. He's still tired, even after the long nap, his eyes feeling heavy and his mouth tasting dry. 

He wants to say something about stopping for the night, about getting a motel if that is really an option. Bucky doesn't get many chances to shower, for one thing. But he doesn't want to show any more weakness than he already has by falling asleep. 

'So,' Steve says, trying valiantly to ignore the fact that he's breaking the silence. 'What do you want for dinner?'

Bucky just twists his neck to look at Steve blankly. Steve lets out a low whistle. 

They end up getting massive burritos wrapped in foil and paper, and eating them on a bench in a park, in the growing dark. Bucky isn't really interested in eating anywhere that involves sitting down and isn't a cheap roadside place that doesn't care that he looks about as homeless as he is. He also likes the open air, the fact that he's about twenty seconds away at any given moment from jumping up onto the side of the convenience store behind them and slipping into the safety of the night. 

He stays on the bench, and uses his fingers to dig black beans from the bottom of his aluminum wrapping. Steve eats slower than he does, taking his time, a warm presence next to him. His shoulder occasionally bumps Bucky's when he lifts the burrito to take a bite. 

'Are you good if we keep driving overnight?' Steve asks when he eventually finishes the food. Bucky has been sitting still and quiet for a while, watching everyone who wanders by a bit too closely. There is an auto-repair shop across the road, and Bucky stretches his fingers, checking if anything in his arm needs fine tuning. 'You can sleep in the back seat. It'll be a bit cozy, but...' 

'But I'm used to it,' Bucky says. 'Yeah, keep driving.' 

Something must come through in his voice, because Steve gives him a concerned look. 'We can stop if you want.' 

'Nah.' 

'When was the last time you slept in a bed?' Steve asks. 

Bucky thinks. From what he remembers of his missions as the Winter Soldier, he never slept. A few days after he pulled Steve from the river he broke into the house of a suburban family that was on holiday. He ate their food and laid low for the night, but he didn't sleep then either, too cautious of whether or not he was being hunted. Since then, he's slept. But never in beds. 

'I don't know,' he answers. 'I don't need to.' What is a bed, anyway? Something to which people attribute comfort and luxury: a necessity that isn't. Bucky doesn't need comfort and scoffs at luxury. He's not even sure he's entirely a person. 

Steve bites his lip, considering. 'You might need a shower though,' he says. 

'Hey,' Bucky huffs, even though he knows its true. Would _love_ a shower. Would basically give his left arm (again) for a shower. 

Steve chuckles. 'Well it's true. Maybe we should stop tomorrow and get you something else to wear, as well.' 

'Are you trying to say something?' 

'Yes,' Steve grins, tugging the empty wrapper from Bucky's metal hand and scrunching it up along with his in his own. He throws it effortlessly into the bin on the other side of the small park. 'Come on, we'll find a motel.'

Bucky stands up to follow, curling and uncurling his fingers. He's not sure whether or not they are really moving a little less fluidly than they usually do, or whether he's hyper-aware of them because of how nonchalantly Steve brushed the robotic hand with his own. 

*

The hot water of the shower is absolutely heavenly, even if the surroundings are less so. The motel bathroom is narrow and cramped, the shower a small corner of the room without a door or curtain, just a curved wall of ceramic lime green. The bottle of shampoo is a radioactive green, and there is a bar of pale mint colored soap on the small shelf on the wall. 

Bucky rubs the shampoo through his hair about four times before he's satisfied, then the soap over every inch of his body, right down to the dirt between his toes that has built up along with the grime from his shoes and socks (which are currently soaking in the sink with hot water and shampoo). Afterward he feels... better. He stays in the shower until steam has fogged up everything and Steve is knocking on the door asking if he's okay. 

He turns off the tap in answer, only too aware of Steve on the bed outside that, through the wall, is only a few feet away. Bucky had argued for separate rooms. Steve had outright refused.

'We used to have a one bedroom flat,' he had said after they'd gotten the key, blatantly trying to prompt Bucky's memory. 'Two narrow beds on either side of the smallest room you've ever seen.' 

'Uh huh,' Bucky had mumbled. 

He's still a little bit annoyed, wanting for his privacy. But he can hear the television through the bathroom door and Steve shifting on the bed and laughing at something on the show, and its... comforting. Maybe there is something familiar about it. Inconsequential. 

He towels himself dry, and shakes his head like a dog, which sends droplets of water flying onto the walls and mirror. He can only see a blurred shape of himself in the fogged up glass. 

Finally, he pulls on his jeans and takes his socks out of the sink, squeezing the water out of them and leaving them on the drying rack on the wall. His shirt is damp from the condensation in the room, so he leaves it behind to dry as well, and steps out into the motel room. Steve looks away from the television as he emerges. 

'Better,' Bucky says, and throws himself onto the other bed. Steve's gaze follows him, smiling. 'Stop that.' 

'What?' Steve says, smiling wider.

' _That_.' 

Steve's eyes linger on him, and Bucky starts to feel exposed. He's got little concept of his body these days, like that blurred figure in the mirror, but maybe being swamped in a hoodie gives Steve something to look past – like this, there is nothing. Just Bucky and the rise and fall of his chest as he breaths: more human than hidden. He pushes the feelings aside. 

Bucky lets his attention be drawn by the television for a short while, but finds himself unable to follow the jokes – too reliant on references he doesn't understand. The camera cuts are disorienting, and the story jumps between characters far too quickly for Bucky to get a handle on what is going on. Steve seems to be enjoying it – he's laughing where it seems appropriate, although Bucky knows that he's a person out of time as well. Maybe he just adapts better. 

So instead of trying to watch, Bucky just relaxes back, propping himself up against the thick pillows and inspects his arm. 

'Everything alright?' Steve asks, when he notices Bucky poking and prodding at the plating, testing dexterity and movement range. 

'Yeah.' Bucky shakes his wrist rapidly, and bends his elbow in and out. 'It's working properly, just feels a bit...' He finds he can't quite describe what feels wrong about his arm. It's like its too heavy, or two slow. Just a bit off balance. Not enough to cause problems, but enough to be distracting. 

'I know a guy in Manhattan who will be able to look at it,' Steve says. 'Built himself an entire suit of robotic armor. Your arm would be right up his alley. You don't remember Howard Stark, do you?' 

Bucky feels something simmer in his mind, hot and slippery. Not a good memory. A Winter Soldier memory. 

'No.' 

'Well, his son--' Steve catches sight of the expression on Bucky's face, and cuts himself off. 'Never mind.' 

Bucky huffs out a breath through his nose, shuffles down the bed until he's lying down properly. The pillow is soft under his head, and the mattress is just firm enough. The room is warm and comfortable, and those things are enough to make the things he doesn't want to think about seem distant. 

Steve turns off the television. He also moves down the bed until he's stretched out. While Bucky is on his back, staring up at the ceiling, still thoughtlessly curling his fingers, Steve is on his side, facing him. 

'Thank you,' Steve says quietly. There is a light switch on the wall between them, and Steve raises one arm to tap it off. The room plunges into dimness. Not darkness: there is a street light outside casting an orange glow in through the blinds. 

'For what?' The light above Bucky is still glowing slightly in the coil at the base of the bulb, like a dying ember. 

'Coming home with me,' Steve says. 'I promise you, Bucky, I swear to God, everything will be okay. I'll make sure everything is okay.' 

'Sure.' 

The glowing ember burns itself out, and Bucky closes his eyes. His hearing is sharp, listening to shuffling sounds in the room next over, and the cars on the highway. He is feeling hyper alert, unsure when he's going to sleep; but resting his eyes and listening to Steve's breathing even out beside him is good enough for now. 

*

The Winter Soldier dreams of the auto-repair shop back in town. He dreams of smashing the back window with his metal fist, and climbing inside. 

There is a voice talking to him, quiet. Not quiet like a whisper, but quiet like through a distant haze of drugs. He thinks its one of his handlers, talking to him as they re-calibrated his arm. He can't make out what they're saying, but it seems to leave impressions for him, unconscious directions. He moves through the shop with purpose, collecting tools and wires and everything he needs.

Then he settles down at a oil stained bench, and sets about opening his arm with a screwdriver. Everything inside looks meaningless to the Winter Soldier: but the voice knows what to do. His right hand works quickly, tweaking and tightening, replacing worn wires and testing until everything is working smoothly. 

The Winter Soldier seals his arm again, runs it through a range of motions. It feels better, now. Like a freshly oiled weapon. The voice gives the Winter Soldier directions, and he leaves the way he came: through the shattered window.


	2. Chapter 2

Bucky wakes up to the soft bleep of a message coming through on Steve's phone. Steve doesn't. He keeps on sleeping, curled up under the blankets, facing the wall. 

It's getting light outside. A dull gray glow replaces that of the orange street light. Bucky pushes himself up so that he's sitting on the edge of the bed. His arm still feels heavy, and off. No more so than yesterday, though. He rolls it in its socket, conscious of where the metal fuses to his skin. 

He glances at the screen of Steve's phone, which is still lit up. The text is from Sam, and it's 0640 hours. Bucky slips off the bed, crouching low to the floor and approaching Steve's back. It's only a foot or so between the two beds, so he doesn't really need to move much at all before he's inches away from the other man, his hand reaching over to hover over Steve's throat. 

He sits like that for probably a full thirty seconds, and Steve sleeps on. Bucky feels satisfied. He just needs to know that he _could_. He pulls back his hand and stands up, lifting up his knee to nudge Steve in the back. 

'Huhhmn?' Steve says, coherently. His hand comes up to rub at his eye, then scrape through his hair. 

'Don't sleep with your back to me,' Bucky warns. 

Steve is too half-awake to listen to sensible advice, so he just smiles sheepishly. 'Mornin', Buck.' 

Looking down at him, Bucky can see a smaller Steve, lying in a different bed, smiling and saying the same thing through a coughing fit, his eyes rimmed red. Bucky chews on his lip. 

'Morning, pal,' he says, because that’s what he said last time. The words echo through time, and feel out of place in this Bucky's mouth. 

Steve loses the smile, his eyes sharpening and his lips softening to just a surprised, pleased expression. 

Bucky runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back off his face. 'I'm sorry, I didn't mean...' Making a face, he asks, 'Did I, I used to say that, right?' 

'Pretty much every day,' Steve answers, sitting up. Unlike Bucky, who's still just in his jeans, Steve is wearing a white t-shirt that has ridden up so that it's bunched up at his armpits, and pajama bottoms. Bucky watches him closely as Steve swings his legs over the side of the bed, tugging his shirt back into place. 

He feels kinda guilty for testing whether he'd be able to kill the guy in his sleep. 

'We should start out soon as possible.' Steve sounds less bleary now that he's out of bed. 'I want to cover as much distance as we can, and also stop and get you something else to wear for the rest of the trip.' 

So they get dressed. Bucky's socks are still slightly damp, but his t-shirt is dry. He pulls it on over his head, and grabs his hoodie from where he left it on the dresser next to the little duffel bag Steve has with him. Having had a shower and slept on clean sheets, Bucky is suddenly particularly conscious of the lingering smell of stale sweat that permeates his clothes. He makes a face. 

Breakfast comes in the form of coffee and bagels eaten in the car. Bucky guzzles down the coffee. Against reason, he seems to be more tired for the full night's sleep than he was yesterday. He thinks modern America has a strange attitude to food, although whether he's unconsciously comparing it to the poverty of the Depression or to the Soviet Union he has no idea. Either way, as weird as he finds it, he is enormously grateful to Starbucks and their ludicrously oversized drinks. 

'Whoa, take it easy,' Steve says, glancing over as Bucky swallows about half of his Venti Americano in one go. Bucky doesn't reply, instead just biting into the cream cheese bagel and swallowing as much of it as he can. 'You're going to get heartburn.'

'Oh no,' Bucky replies flatly, 'I think... Steve, I think I can't feel my arm.'

The laugh that comes out of Steve's mouth at that is surprised and almost immediately stifled. 'Shut up,' he says, twisting around to back them out of the Starbucks car park. He's grinning. 'That's not funny.'

'Yeah it is,' Bucky says, and swallows down another large mouthful of coffee. The truth is, he _can't_ feel his arm. Well, he can, but it's been feeling a little more heavy and detached since they got in the car this morning, and it's niggling at him. It's like someone else is holding his coffee. Someone who will do exactly what Bucky wants them to, but isn't... isn't a part of him. His arm feels foreign to his person. Even though technically it is, it has never felt that way before. 

He moves the coffee to his real hand and puts the metal one in his pocket. 

The driving is somewhat more pleasant today. The first leg out of Salt Lake City is through patchy, rolling mountainside along the Lincoln highway. Bucky, although tired, is pumped full of enough caffeine that he's not going to be falling asleep any time soon, and finds himself actually enjoying watching the scenery fly past. Steve seems less cautious about talking to Bucky, and Bucky actually finds himself not adverse to occasionally chatting either. 

They stick to easy topics. Unfortunately, they don't have many of those. 

The first is coffee, and Bucky expressing his disbelief at serving sizes. Steve claims it has to do with the rise of the superhuman. 

'We have Norse Gods entering our realm these days,' Steve says thoughtfully. 'I can't be sure, but I wake up into a world with mutants, and Gods and the Hulk... it stands to reason that food and drink portions are going to get bigger too.'

Bucky furrows his brow. 'I don't think that's right.'

'No, I'm pretty sure that's why,' Steve says, but he's smirking. 

After they've run that conversation dry (which quickly shifts to the free market and a supply and demand driven economy, wherein Bucky finds out he apparently has residual socialist leanings), Steve suggests they put some music on, and this time, Bucky actually asks questions about what they're listening to. Most of the questions are, however, answered simply with, 'Sam would know.'

Eventually it boils down to: 

'I don't know, Bucky! Most of this playlist was put together by Sam, Nat and Clint. I just asked them to catch me up on what they thought were the big musical innovations of the century!'

'Well, it's clearly working great. You can't even tell me who its by.'

'If you want to know, you can check on the iPod.'

'Alright, how?'

'Just press that there.'

'… It says unknown artist.'

Steve takes his hand off of the wheel, and digs around in his pocket for his phone, handing it to Bucky. 

'Okay, do you want to look it up?'

'Yes.'

'Just tap the little icon of the globe--'

'I know how to use a phone, Steve!'

'Sorry, sorry, you didn't know how to use the iPod.'

Bucky rolls his eyes. 'That's different. I didn't need to know how to use an iPod as an international assassin.'

Steve clears his throat. 'Sorry,' he says again. 

'How did it go again?'

'I'm pretty sure if you just search “ _We Didn't Start the Fire_ ”, it'll come up,' Steve says. 

Bucky starts to tap in the letters, but before he can search, the screen goes black and then an image of the flying soldier – Sam – comes up on the screen. 

'You're getting a call,' Bucky says, holding the phone out for Steve to take. 

Steve frowns. 'I'm driving,' he says, 'Can you pick up and put it on speakerphone?'

Bucky looks at the screen, and drags the green icon across with his thumb, lifting it to his ear. 'Hello,' he says. 

'Oh,' comes Sam's voice into his ear, surprised and a little cautious. 'Hey, you.'

'Steve is driving,' Bucky explains. 

'Let me guess, hands on nine and three?'

Glancing over at Steve, who shrugs, Bucky replies: 'I'll try to put you on speakerphone, hold on.'

'Sure, don't distract him from the road,' Sam says, and Bucky lifts the phone up in front of his face, scanning the screen for the speakerphone option. He quickly finds it, and reaches over to put the phone on Steve's lap. 

'Hows it going, Sam?' Steve asks, keeping his eyes on the road. Bucky looks out the window, feeling oddly uncomfortable, like he has to make a good impression either by being quiet or friendly. Friendly isn't really his forte right now, so for now he figures he'll shut the hell up. 

'Hey man, things are good here,' Sam says, his voice tinny through the phone speakers. 'Fury isn't so happy that you didn't come straight home, but that's him. Is he ever happy?'

'He has a stressful job,' Steve says, chuckling. 'We're on route. I don't think it'll take more than three or four days to get home.'

'Yeah, good.' Sam pauses. 'I know he's listening, but is everything alright with Barnes?'

Bucky's stomach twists. There's no good answer to that question. Truthfully, it would have to be ' _Of course not, he can only remember his past in short, bloody flashes, he wakes up tireder than he goes to sleep, he's constantly on edge and obsessed with being able to disappear if he needs to, and his arm might be malfunctioning._ ' Steve only knows half of that though, anyway, and what he says is just:

'Yeah, we're doing alright, aren't we Bucky?'

Bucky makes an affirmative grunt, that Sam manages to hear through the line. 'That sounds positive,' he says dryly. 'Look, I'll talk to you later, Steve, when you're not driving?'

'Yeah,' Steve says. 'I'll call back when we stop for lunch.'

'Cool,' Sam says. 'Alright, if that's everything--'

Bucky drags his gaze away from the window. 'Wait!' he says, and picks up the phone off Steve's lap, who gives him a surprised look. 

'… Yeah?' Sam says hesitantly, and Bucky is suddenly embarrassed by the vehemency of his interjection. 

'Uh, I meant to ask,' he says, 'who did _We Didn't Start the Fire_?'

Sam lets out a sigh through the speakers. 'C'mon, Steve,' he says. 'It's Billy Joel. We've been over Billy Joel.'

Steve slaps his hands on the wheel. 'Oh _right_ , Billy Joel!'

'Pull your act together, Steve,' Sam says, teasing, and then there's a short pause. '… Wait, wasn't JFK one of the Winter Sold--'

Bucky hangs up the phone. 

*

By the time they pull into a mall complex in Rock Springs for lunch, they have listened to _We Didn't Start the Fire_ a total of twelve times. Letting a few songs pass, Bucky would continuously sneak it back onto the playlist, and after a few repeats Steve noticed that he was starting to mouth silently along with the lyrics, tapping his foot against the floor of the car. 

'Bits of it are triggering memories,' he says defensively to Steve, catching his amused glance. 

Steve loses the pleased expression immediately. 'Not bad memories though, right?' 

Bucky shrugs. 'Lots of them are pretty awful,' he says, but his thumb is tapping against his thigh and he's bobbing his head along with the beat slightly. Truth is, he's only catching short flashes of concepts and places as he listens to the song: lots of them are Winter Soldier memories, behind a gun or his hand around a knife. But there is something therapeutic about the way the memories surface, like they're incapable of touching him. 

The song fades out, and Steve turns off the engine. 'Clothes or food first?' he asks. 

Bucky doesn't want to be in his dirty t-shirt and hoodie any longer than necessary. 'Clothes.'

'We don't need much for now,' Steve says, as they wander past the other shops on the way: cupcake shops, pet shops, stationary shops, another Starbucks. 'Just enough to get you back to Washington, then we can properly set you up at home.'

'I want something warm,' Bucky replies, looking into a window full of brightly colored ladies shoes as he passes. Some are neon yellow with short sharp silver studs protruding from the back. Bucky doesn't say anything, but he thinks they're kind of awesome. Seeing Steve about to open his mouth, Bucky cuts him off. 'I know its May. I get cold easily.'

'Alright,' Steve says. They pass through the front entrance to the Target, straight into the women's section. Steve gravitates towards the store directory, but Bucky doesn't follow. He barely even hears as Steve says: 'Menswear is on the second floor, so we need to get to the escalator... Bucky?'

Bucky isn't thinking about getting upstairs. His gaze is caught on one mannequin a few yards away, and he slowly approaches it, raising his hand to point at it. 

'That's like my old jacket,' he says to Steve, who follows the direction of his finger. Bucky looks away from the jacket to glance at Steve, and is relieved to see his mouth part in recognition. 

'Yeah,' he says, coming up next to Bucky. 'Yeah it is. I mean, its a brighter blue, and cut a bit differently, but yeah... you remember that?'

'The material is more shitty,' Bucky says, bringing a hand up to touch the sleeve of the jacket. 'It won't be as warm.'

'That goes for everything these days,' Steve laments. 'Do you want to see if we can find something similar upstairs?'

Bucky glances around, sees a whole rack of the jacket only a foot or so away, and moves over to look at the sizing. 'No, I want this one,' he says. 

Steve raises his eyebrows. 'Okay, Buck,' he says simply. 'If they carry a size that will fit you.'

Shrugging off his hoodie and passing it to Steve, Bucky pulls one of the larger jackets off the rack. It doesn't fit over his broad shoulders, so he swaps it for a size up – and this one fits perfectly. 

He smooths it down his sides. It cinches in a little at the waist, marking it as clearly designed for women, but Bucky doesn't mind. Doing up the buttons, he glances in a nearby mirror, and finds himself grinning. The coat is double breasted, like his old one, although longer, ending midway down his thighs. It brings back memories: memories of fighting, and snow and ice. But nothing like the Winter Soldier memories, because in all of them he can sense Steve beside him. Like he is now. 

He slips his hands into the pockets of the coat, and lets out an irritated grunt. 'What the hell is this shit?' he says, trying to push deeper into the pockets and getting nowhere. 

Steve chuckles. 'Natasha was complaining about that,' he says. 'Apparently clothes designers think women don't need to carry things.'

'Ugh,' Bucky says, and shrugs off the coat. He swaps it in Steve's arms for his hoodie. 'I can have it, right?'

Steve glances down into his arms and shrugs. 'Course.'

Regretfully, Bucky pulls his hoodie back on. He thinks he might burn it later, if he gets the chance. 'Second floor?' he suggests. They don't actually get that far for a while, because as they make their way toward the escalator, Bucky spots some jeans he likes, also in the women's section, and ends up trying them on and taking a pair in deep maroon. 

Finally they make it to the second floor, and pick out a couple of plain gray Henleys, a packet of briefs and three new pairs of socks. It doesn't take long, both of them military efficient, but by the time they have their arms full of clean, fresh clothes, Bucky is feeling... good. 

Or he would be, if his arm wasn't practically a dead weight at his side. He has to continuously check that it is still holding onto the packet of briefs, because there is basically no sensory input coming from the metal hand itself. 

Lastly, they head to the health and beauty section, and grab a toothbrush, a stick of deodorant, and a hairbrush at Steve's suggestion. At the checkout, Bucky keeps his head down. 

'Am I... kept?' he mutters as the items scan through. Steve says they're not spending much by today’s standard, but the total rings up over a couple of hundred dollars and that looks like a lot to Bucky. 

Steve chuckles. 'Trust me, you covered our rent enough times when I couldn't work that this isn't even nearly paying you back,' he says, and adds as an afterthought; '… Adjusted for inflation, I mean.'

'I could just steal them,' Bucky says, his voice quiet enough that the cashier won't hear, but Steve will. But then everything is bagged up and paid for on Steve's card, and Bucky finds he doesn't give it much more thought. Steve waits for him as he hurries off to the restrooms to change into the clean clothes, and although Bucky keeps his shoes and puts his old jeans back into one of the store bags, he disposes of the filthy t-shirt, hoodie, underwear and socks before he emerges again. 

Steve smiles at him as he emerges in the deep red jeans and the long blue jacket, but Bucky thinks its kind of a sad smile. Bucky slips his metal hand into his jacket pocket, as usual, and offers Steve a small quirk of the lips. 

He doesn't smile much, and this one is somewhat forced, but he intends the gratefulness behind it. 

'Lunch?' he asks. 

'Yeah, lets eat, buddy,' Steve says. 

*

E A S T B E R L I N , 1 9 6 4 . 

_Clack, Clack, Clack, Clack_.

The Winter Soldier climbs out of the crawlspace in the RB-66 reconnaissance aircraft, his hand tightening around the handle of his knife. The plane is en route from Touls to the North Sea, at a cruise speed of 525 mph. The Winter Soldier has been crouching in the dim, tiny space for several hours, but if he feels his legs cramping or his back aching, he pays no notice to it. 

The craft has a crew of three, and the mission is simple, impersonal. Kill them all, no guns, and reroute. Leave nothing behind that will imply interference after the plane becomes a burning wreck on the ground, gunned down as it will be once it drifts over into East German airspace. Take a parachute. Jump out. Reach handlers at rendezvous. 

Simple, the Winter Soldier thinks as he hears the toilet flush a few feet away. He presses himself against the wall, still and sharp, and waits for the cubicle door to open. 

The first man is lying dead on the ground before he even does up the fly on his jumpsuit. The killing wound – a sharp blow to his temple with the butt end of the knife – will be explained by force of impact when the plane goes down. The Winter Soldier steps over the corpse, and moves silently towards the cockpit. 

'You jerking off or something, Howie?' a voice calls from the front of the plane. 'C'mon, get back up here!'

The Winter Soldier moves quickly and quietly so that he's out of anyone's line of sight if they glance back up the craft. 

'Howie?' the same voice calls again, and the Soldier's metal fingers curl on his knife. 

'Check on him, will ya?' another voice says, this one deeper, with a Brooklyn accent. The Winter Soldier thinks in Russian, but he can immediately place that man's intonation, and in the back of his mind, he wonders why. Doesn't linger on it. He hears a chair creak in the cockpit as the other man gets up. 

'Okay, okay,' comes the voice, moving towards the door the Winter Soldier is lurking behind. 'But I better not see anything I don't wan--'

The man crumbles to the floor as the Winter Soldier snaps his neck. He moves swiftly into the cockpit, and the third crewman manages to get out a 'Who the fuck are--' before the Soldier kills him too. He uses the handle of the knife again, pulling the man's head back and slamming it down between his eyes. 

There is blood all over his gloves, and the Winter Soldier is careful not to touch anything he doesn't need to as he nudges the man's corpse onto the floor and slides into the seat himself. Redirecting the plane is straightforward, and he makes sure they're staying at cruise speed and altitude before he moves on to the extraction part of the mission. 

It won't take long before the aircraft drifts into East German airspace, so the Soldier needs to get out soon. He stands up and moves back through the plane, stepping easily over the bodies he's left behind, and making his way towards the hatch. 

There are parachutes on the wall, and the Winter Soldier takes one, strapping it onto his back. The hatch is on the floor; he kicks it open, spreading his legs over the opening, ready to jump. 

He looks down. The ground is far below, but mountains are rising up nearly to meet the height of the plane, snowy alps splattered with white and gray and rocky outcrops. Far below, a river curls its way between the swirling dips between the mountains. The wind is roaring in the Soldier's ears, icy and splattered with flakes of snow. 

The Winter Soldier finds himself unable to jump. His legs are shaking, and his heart is racing inside his chest, and he doesn't know why. 

He needs to _jump_ , before the plane gets gunned down. He knows this. Logically, he's ready, and his metal arm is steady and ready to pull the parachute when needed – but the rest of him is shaking and sweating and he can, for the first time that he knows of, feel the hot sting of tears behind his eye guards. He can hear his own breath come out ragged in his mask, echoing in his ears. 

The snow is swirling all around him, the mountainside is dropping down like the jagged edge of shattered glass. 

He can't jump. 

'Я не могу сделать это,' he gasps. 

*

'Я не могу сделать это!'

Someone is shaking Bucky, one hand on his shoulder, the other pressed to his face, thumb rubbing is soft circles against his cheekbone. 

'Помогите мне!' Bucky pleads, his eyes snapping open and hands shooting out to twist in the fabric of the shirt of the man -- of Steve's shirt. 

'Shh, its okay, Buck,' Steve murmurs, both hands coming up to Bucky's face now. One slides through his hair, stroking gently. 'You were dreaming, it's okay.'

'Нет, я не--' Bucky pulls in an unsteady breath, feeling himself trembling in the car seat. He tries to focus, tries to switch to English. 'I don't...' he manages, looking around. They're pulled up at the side of the highway. Soft green and red-brown hills flank either side of the road, covered in shrubs and dry grasses. 'Oh, _fuck_ ,' he breaths. He lets himself fall back into the seat, and Steve's hands pull away from his face, but stay touching him, one on his metal forearm, the other resting on Bucky's real hand. 

Steve's expression is concerned and just a little bit frightened, and Bucky wonders what was coming out of his mouth while he was dreaming. 

'I didn't mean to drift off,' he says. He can't have been asleep for long – the sun hasn't moved much in the sky since they set out again after lunch. 'I'm sorry, you can keep driving.'

'No, we'll take a minute,' Steve says. 'Do you want to talk about it?'

Bucky shakes his head, lifting his real hand up from under Steve's warm touch to run it through his hair. His heart is starting to slow down, no longer thumping wildly in his chest, but he still feels sick from the terror of the dream. 

'Do we have any water?' he asks. 

Steve reaches across him to the glove compartment, pulling out a plastic bottle and handing it to Bucky. He uncaps it and lifts it to his mouth, swallowing down a few large mouthfuls. His hand is trembling, and he gets a few splashes of the water dribbling down his chin. He caps the bottle again and runs a hand over his face. 'That was shit,' he says, closing his eyes. 

Images of white mountains and long falls flash behind his eyelids. He opens them again. 

He wonders what happened after what he just remembered. Did he end up jumping or did he go down with the plane? Either way, he was clearly recovered and taken back to HYDRA, and wiped. What had happened when they discovered he botched his role in the assignment? 

Bucky sighs. 'Where are we going to stop tonight?' he asks.

'We passed through Rawlins while you were out,' Steve replies. 'How 'bout we drive on to Laramie? The last sign said about 70 miles. You up for driving another hour, then stopping for the night?' 

'Yeah, sure.' 

Steve twists back so he's facing the front of the car, and shifts out of park. Bucky tightens his fingers in the back of his hair, thumping his head back against the head rest to watch Steve drive. 

'Don't let me sleep again,' he says as they pull back out onto the road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Russian is (I hope!):
> 
> Я не могу сделать это | I can not do it  
> Помогите мне | Help me  
> Нет, я не | No, I can't


	3. Chapter 3

Laramie has nineteen motels, and Steve and Bucky pass more than half of them by the time they find one with a vacancy. 

'Oh thank god,' Bucky mutters as they pull into the car park and climb out. He's exhausted and hungry and just, just doesn't want to be in the car any longer today. Steve glances over the roof of the Honda to check on him. He's been doing that constantly since the incident earlier, driving over the speed limit in his effort to get them off the road for the night. 'I'm okay, Steve,' he says. 'I just want to lie down.' 

Inside reception, the woman behind the desk glances up as they walk inside and says without hesitation: 'We've got a queen, boys.' 

Bucky glances at Steve, who immediately flushes. 'Oh, no, no we need a twin,' he says, with a grin.

The lady at reception shrugs, stubbing out the butt of the cigarette between her fingers. 'Good for you,' she says. 'As I said, we've got a queen. You chose the busiest weekend of the year to stop in Laramie.' 

'Ah,' Steve says, and looks at Bucky. 'I guess we'll try somewhere else?' 

'Wish you luck with that,' the motel manager laughs as Bucky shrugs regretfully. He doesn't want to get back in the car. 

'I can always sleep on a sofa or something,' Bucky points out. 

Steve shakes his head. 'No, Buck, I can sleep on the chair--' 

'No, it's fine, I can sleep--' 

The woman cuts him off. 'So, do you two want the room, then?' 

Steve looks at Bucky inquiringly, who just gives a noncommittal nod. Steve sighs. 'Yeah, we'll take it,' he says, stepping forward to fill in his details at the register. Bucky hangs back, hands in his pockets, the collar of his coat turned up. 

The women smiles at him over Steve's broad shoulder. He smiles back, tight and unconvincing. 

Inside, the motel room is plain, but adequate. A large bed with off white sheets and an ugly blanket folded at the bottom, patterned with a brownish red and orange depiction of tropical foliage. There is a small kitchenette tucked into a corner a few feet away from the bed, and a door that presumably leads to the bathroom. There is a television and a table with two comfortable looking arm chairs, but, Bucky notes uncomfortably, no sofa. 

'Hmm,' Steve says, coming in behind him. 'Well, we'll work something out.'

For now, Bucky just wants to lie down, so he wanders over to the bed, shucking off his coat, and lies down on his stomach, head buried in his arms. The metal of his forearm is cool against his forehead. 

'Bucky...?' Steve asks, voice floating over, concerned. 

'I'm fine,' Bucky mumbles, closing his eyes. 'Just... tired.'

As he lies there, images of falling through white swirling snow and ice ragged mountainsides flash behind his eyes. He feels weightless, buffeted by wind so cold that it burns. The bed is soft and steady underneath him, but it doesn't feel real, feels like its a tangible illusion in an otherwise empty plummet. 

The bed shifts as Steve sits down at the edge. His hand comes out, resting on Bucky's calf. Skin twitching, not quite a flinch, Bucky starts. 

'What did you dream about?' Steve asks him. Bucky turns his head, still resting on his arm, and looks at Steve. 

'It was a memory,' he says, resignedly. 'Coming back. I usually dream things that happened. I dunno, they just filter back through, I guess.'

Bucky doesn't expect it, but he actually feels a bit better for saying as much to Steve. He wets his lips, and keeps going. 

'A mission,' he says. 'I... don't know what happened. Brought down a plane. Make it look like the Americans were spying, get the East Germans to shoot 'em down. International incident. Standard enough.'

Steve nods him on. Bucky swallows. He's grateful that Steve doesn't question his actions, what he did, instead just accepting what happened without judgment. But he can't believe it. Can believe how Captain America can be so _mild_ to the things the Winter Soldier did. 

'I killed them,' Bucky continues, unnecessarily. Prompting. 'American boys. Just recon guys.'

'It wasn't you,' Steve replies. 

'Yeah, well. That wasn't the bit that got me. It was... extraction. I was meant to jump from the plane before it got shot down. I was looking out, over the Alps. It was winter, or. Or early spring. Something like that. It was snowing, anyway. Freezing. The drop was-- I could barely see the ground through the swirling blizzard down below. And that's where you're wrong.'

Bucky takes a deep breath in, lets it out. 

'What am I wrong about, Buck?'

'It was me. I couldn't do it. I couldn't jump out of that plane, because I was so, so scared to fall like that. Down into that chasm of ice. Again. For a moment, I wasn't the Winter Soldier, I was me. The Winter Soldier was never _scared_ , the Winter Soldier _was_ nothing but ice and steep drops and snowdrifts and blood.'

He looks up at Steve. 'That is what happened to me, right? Before I became it. I fell, like that.'

Steve looks pale, and for a moment Bucky thinks he isn't going to answer. Then he says, 'Yes,' and his voice is rough. 

'Yeah,' Bucky says. 'I thought so.'

They are quiet for a minute, and Bucky shifts on the bed so that he's on his side, facing Steve. Although it hurt to talk about, he feels better. Doesn't feel like he's plummeting any more. The hotel feels real around him. He can smell dust on the air and hear the hum of the air-con going in the room next to theirs. Cars on the highway. Water gurgling in the pipes. 

Eventually Steve says: 'So, what happened?'

Bucky blinks. 'Dunno. Maybe I jumped. Maybe I just went down with the plane and survived somehow. Choose your own ending. It could come back to me later, who knows.'

'Okay,' Steve says, and tightens his grip on Bucky's leg. 'It doesn't matter anymore.' 

'Pretty sure it mattered to the families of those guys on the plane.' 

'I know that,' Steve says, tightly. 'But this is what happens in war. Do you think the German soldiers we fought against didn't have people who loved them, Bucky? We do what we have to do, and we live with ourselves the only way we can. By respecting them. We don't blame ourselves, because we were doing what we did, and it's already done, and now all that is left is to respect everything that has been lost.' 

Bucky nods. Steve takes his hand off of his calf, stands up. 

'I don't know...' Bucky murmurs, the words rolling onto his tongue, unforeseen. '… what I'm going to do once we get back to Washington.' He hasn't really thought about this himself, yet. It's a subject he prefers to defer. Irrelevant for now. Something to dwell on when it becomes necessary. 'When I started walking, I was hiding, but I was also... I wanted to do something. Track down HYDRA cells. Take back, not whats mine, but take back some of the things I did. Or replace them, at least. Try and do something to make them void. I didn't get started on that, by the way.' 

'Other things are more important right now,' Steve says. 

'But I still want to,' Bucky replies. 'So, I don't know. I don't know what you want from me once we get... home.' 

Steve scratches his neck. 'What _I_ need is for you to be--' he searches for a word. Bucky can see him passing over safe, happy, healthy. He knows why. They're not things for Steve to choose. 'I just want you here,' Steve finally settles on. 'Alive. But there's always plenty of work that needs getting done. We'll sort it out later.' 

'Uh huh,' Bucky says, and shifts his real arm up under his head so that he's propped up on it. 'So, looks like we're bunking tonight, huh?' 

Steve lets out an amused huff. 'I can sleep on the floor,' he says, and its Bucky's turn to laugh.

'Don't be ridiculous.' 

'I'm not. I don't want you to be uncomfortable. I don't need much sleep anyway.' 

'I'll be more uncomfortable being in the passenger seat of a car driven by someone with sleep deprivation and super strength.' He waves away Steve's concerns with his metal hand, seeing it flick through the air, but not feeling the movement. 'It's just one night.'

'Yeah,' Steve says, although he doesn't sound convinced. 'We should get some dinner.' 

Bucky frowns. 'I don't want to move,' he says. 

'That's fine. We can order in.' He pulls out his phone and sits down in one of the chairs at the small table. 'Pizza?' 

'I can't remember the last time I had pizza,' Bucky replies, then, after a pause: 'Uh, obviously.' 

Steve grins crookedly at him, not unamused, but a little rueful. He passes Bucky the menu on the phone and says, 'Well, refresh your memory.'

*

The motel room seems to become more and more of a shelter to Bucky over the next short while. They order their dinner, turn the television on, chat comfortably. Bucky relaxes, softening against the comforter on the bed. 

Steve, if anything, becomes firmer. His shoulders become set, doesn't laugh or grin quiet so freely, although his lips quirk when Bucky makes dry jokes, and he's clearly pleased to keep talking. He leans against the table, his body angled towards Bucky. But he keeps his distance. 

'There was a place,' he says to Bucky, 'in Brooklyn, when we were young, probably when you were about fourteen or so, where we used to go to get pizza. It was twenty-five cents. For a large pizza. For both of us.' 

Bucky laughs. 'What did we used to get?' 

'Well it certainly wasn't the bacon cheeseburger monstrosity that you just ordered,' Steve says, passionately. 

'What?' Bucky rolls onto his back. 'It sounds good!' 

'It sounds like someone just put a cow and a pig in a blender and baked them on pizza dough.' 

'Yeah,' Bucky says, wistfully. 

Steve snorts, just as there is a knock on the door. He gets to his feet, and Bucky pushes himself up into a sitting position immediately, on the alert. 

The pizza guy hands in a couple of boxes. Steve hands over some money. 'Thanks' and 'Have a good evening's are exchanged. The door closes. Bucky relaxes again. 

Steve opens the box on top, and hands it over to Bucky. 'That looks disgusting,' he says pleasantly. 'I'm just going to have a shower.' 

Bucky looks up from where he's picking up his first slice. 'You're not going to eat first?' 

'I'll eat in a bit. I've just been driving too much, need to rinse off,' Steve says, rubbing at his neck. Bucky shrugs. There's something oddly defensive in Steve's voice, but it doesn't concern Bucky, because there are pickles and mustard on his pizza and they might fall off if he doesn't concentrate. 

'Enjoy, I guess,' Bucky says around his first mouthful. He barely stops a glob of sauce from falling on the duvet. Maybe he shouldn't be eating on the bed. When he looks up, the door to the bathroom is closing and then he hears the water start up. 

Bucky finishes off the first slice of pizza, and licks some mustard off his metal fingers. Before picking up another, he tugs his Henley over his head and tosses it aside, not wanting to get any food on his new clothes. Then, sitting cross legged in the middle of the mattress, Bucky sets to work devouring slice after slice. 

He's still not great at eating slowly, but for once (although it basically flies down his throat) he actually manages to enjoy the meal. Biting into each slice brings back, if not memories, sensations. It's a familiar feeling, and if he closes his eyes he can almost smell the exhaust from cars trundling past, and hear a crackling radio with a baseball game coming through, and Steve – a smaller, younger Steve – telling him to slow down if he doesn't want to choke. 

Distant smells and sounds that aren't real, that aren't present, but linger on Bucky's senses like they're on the tip of his tongue. 

His metal hand is numb, though, and as he raises one slice to his mouth with it, he finds he misjudges the distance, spilling pizza sauce, beef and mustard down his chest. By some miracle, none drops onto the bedding. 

'Aw hell,' Bucky mutters, and brings up his human hand to guide the pizza back to the box. He clenches his metal fist several times, then brings his index finger up to touch his nose. He lands it perfectly. _Yeah, real useful now,_ he thinks, and gets to his feet, wiping at his chest with his hand. 

The water is still running in the bathroom, but he approaches anyway and knocks. 

'Steve,' he calls, 'I need the sink.' 

There is no answer. 

'Can you pass me out a hand towel or something?' he tries again, but apparently Steve can't hear him over the spray of water. Bucky sighs. 

He raises his voice louder and says: 'Okay, I'm coming in. Uh, cover whatever you need to.' 

As he pushes the door open, it becomes abundantly clear that Steve heard none of that. Bucky stops in the doorway, the image before him branding itself on his retinas. 

Steve, naked and golden, water cascading down the firm angles of his sculpted torso. He is leaning back against the wall of the shower, facing Bucky – but his eyes are closed. One hand caresses his chest, sliding over the glistening pectoral to tease at his nipple. The other hand – Bucky's breath catches in his throat – is slowly twisting over the head of his cock, grip firm and slow. 

'Oh fuck,' Bucky manages. 'Shit, I, sorry. Shit. I just need--' 

Steve's eyes fly open at Bucky's voice, and he immediately reaches out to grab the shower curtain, pulling it in front of him. The flush that was already warm across his chest rises up to color his whole face. 'Bucky!' he says, his voice ragged and alarmed. Bucky squeezes his eyes shut, reaches out to grab the hand towel from next to the sink, and makes a swift exit with all the speed of a professional secret agent. 

He closes the door behind him, and falls back against the wood. 

The towel is in his hand, and the pizza toppings are still on his chest, nearly forgotten. Absently, he starts to wipe them off, his brain only supplying images of Steve stroking himself in the spray of hot water. 

After a few moments, Bucky realizes he's clean, wipes his hands and drops the towel into the sink in the kitchenette. 

He wanders back over to the bed, and looks at the pizza box, but decides he doesn't feel like eating anymore. He picks it up and puts it on the table before dropping himself onto the bed. The expression on Steve's face – before he'd noticed Bucky's presence – lingers on his mind. His mouth had been open and slack, his chest heaving. Almost like he was in pain. 

Bucky lies back against the pillows, squeezing his eyes shut. He can't remember the last time he did _that_. It hasn't occurred to him. There is some part of his body that can recall the pleasure he used to feel when he came, but its buried so deep, all that he can think of right now is curiosity. He can't remember the last time he touched himself there for any purpose other than hygiene, and he can't remember his last orgasm. He thinks about Steve, the way his fingers had rubbed over his nipple, caressing and tweaking. Deliberately, Bucky raises his hand up to his bare chest, and slides his fingers slowly down from the dip of his throat to his nipple. He swirls his thumb over it a few times, until it hardens under his touch, but he feels... nothing substantial. He drops his hand to the bed. 

So Bucky just lies there, images of Steve dancing over the motel ceiling. Time passes, and Steve doesn't emerge from the shower. Bucky wonders if he is finishing up, or hiding in embarrassment. 

Or first (a), then (b). 

His stomach is clenching at the thoughts of Steve touching himself, and Bucky thinks, he's certain, that he should be hard. He _would_ be hard. But he's not. Slowly, the feeling of heart pounding interest dissipates, and Bucky is left feeling somewhat insubstantial. He curls up onto his side, and listens to the television, which is still mumbling out distant nonsense. 

_Stay tuned to find out how you can get the original Magic Bullet personal, versatile counter-top Magician free! That’s right! Get the complete twenty one piece system free! Details just ahead. What can you do in ten seconds? You can start chopping onions--_

Finally, the bathroom door opens. Bucky cranes his neck to look at Steve, and drags his mouth into something approximating a smirk. 

'Built up an appetite yet?' he asks.

Steve's hand goes through his hair. 'I'm sorry you saw that, Buck,' he mutters. 

'Everyone does it,' Bucky replies, hollow to his own ears. 'Even Captain America.'

Smiling lopsidedly, Steve says, 'Yeah, yeah I guess so.' 

There's a long period of silence, in which Steve shifts from foot to foot, and Bucky stays curled up on the bed. 

'Did you eat your pizza?' Steve eventually asks, and Bucky nods. 

'Got half of it on me,' he replies. 'Which is why... Anyway. You should have yours.' 

'I should,' Steve replies, and moves over to the small table. 'I'm pretty hungry now.' 

Bucky snorts. 

'I mean, not--' Steve coughs. 'It's just, uh, late, is all.' 

'Sure.' 

Conversation is sparse for the rest of the evening. Steve eats his pizza, and pays most of his attention to the television instead of Bucky, who suspects he's not genuinely interested in the advert for an air filtering system.

Bucky, for his part, rarely gets up from the bed. He goes to the bathroom, gets some water, eventually has a very short shower of his own, but spends most of the evening lying down, thinking about... about what he's lost. His thoughts drift everywhere from Steve's hand twisting on his cock, back to the plane and the icy cliffs of the Alps, to his hand on his _own_ cock, maybe what it would be like, to the families of the people he's killed, to the past, to faces of women that drift into his mind that he wonders if maybe he--

Finally, its well and truly late, and Steve yawns. 'I can still sleep on the floor,' he says pointedly. 

'Don't be stupid,' Bucky mutters, and shifts over on the bed, making space for Steve. It's warm enough in the room that Bucky doesn't need to sleep under the blankets, which he's happy about. Sometimes the tight sheets of motel beds make him feel trapped. He'd rather avoid it. Steve turns on the lamp next to the empty side of the bed, then turns off the main lights, changes into his pajama bottoms out of Bucky's line of sight, and comes over to the bed. 

He lies on top of the blankets, like Bucky. Lies down facing him. 

Then laughs softly into the back of his hand in the dim light of the lamp. 'I've made things awkward,' he says. 

'Nah,' Bucky sighs. 'I've probably walked in on you doing that before, right?' 

Steve shakes his head. 'No, actually.' Then he smirks. 'I've walked in on _you_.' 

It is clear he expects Bucky to laugh or something, and immediately pushes his head up on his arm when Bucky stays dead silent. 

'It's okay if you don't remember that,' he says. 

Bucky shakes his head. 'No, Steve, I don't remember...' he rubs his metal hand over his face. 'I don't remember getting off. At all. Ever. I wish I did.' 

Steve's lips part, and his eyes widen. 'Oh,' he says. 'So you haven't, since...' 

Bucky rolls his eyes. 'Haven't been in the mood,' he says dryly. 

'Oh, hell, Bucky,' Steve says, and it's almost worse now, Bucky thinks, for how sad Steve looks for him. 'That's--' 

Bucky cuts him off. 'Not the worst thing in the world,' he supplies. 'I don't need you to feel bad for me.' 

'No, no of course not,' Steve says. 'I'm sorry.' 

Bucky lets out an annoyed sigh. 'Anyway, this afternoon has been _great_ ,' he says. 'I'm going to sleep.' 

It's a lie. He knows he's not going to sleep for a while. But he rolls over so that his back is to Steve, and closes his eyes resolutely. 

He hears the light switch off, and the blackness behind his eyes goes a shade darker. 

'Night, Bucky,' Steve murmurs. 

Bucky knows he doesn't really expect a response, so he doesn't give him one. He just lies in the darkness, feeling the bed dip underneath him as Steve shifts about to get comfortable. 

Images of Steve naked and wet continue to melt behind his eyes. Beside him, Steve radiates warmth. Bucky tries to breath evenly and steady, and doesn't move. 

Time passes, and something similar to sleep approaches sooner than Bucky was expecting. It's not real sleep – he's too conscious of his own body, and of Steve's presence and emanating heat for that. But he loses his thoughts to abstraction and distance, relinquishing control of where they take him. 

In the darkness, he imagines himself in the shower, his human hand tight around his cock while the other, unreal hand ghosts over his throat and chest and stomach and thighs, almost as if it doesn't belong to him. It slowly makes its way behind him, and Bucky's back arches as his metal fingers press inside of his body, cold and intrusive. 

The part of him that is still aware and awake notes that his body is still unresponsive, like the fantasies are distant and clinical. Frustration twists inside of him like nausea. 

His mind fills the gaps. Steve is back, in the shower, showing Bucky what he should do. He touches himself, and Bucky matches the movements. Steve's hand comes out, touches Bucky, moves his hand for him. 

'Like that,' he murmurs. 'You used to like it like that.'

His voice almost seems real, like its whispering into his ear, and Bucky has to stop himself from checking over his shoulder that the real Steve is asleep. 

' _I used to like..._ ' Bucky murmurs, in his mind, and then his brain supplies.

Steve is still there, but the slighter, paler Steve. The one from before the war. Except he's not really there, he's –

Bucky realizes he's remembering a fantasy. He's remembering the way he used to think about Steve, in the bed over, only a few short feet away, imagining that he can hear him trying to stifle moans and gasps, the rustle of blankets as he gets himself off. 

In the fantasy within a dream, Bucky gets up, goes over to the bed. Pulls away the sheets, and presses down into Steve, holding his body above him and taking his already leaking cock in his own hand. He kisses him. Steve melts beneath him, opening his mouth and his body to whatever Bucky will give to him. 

Out of nowhere, Bucky is fully awake. The fantasy is faded, gone. He's lying next to the real Steve, who is breathing evenly and shifting in his sleep a little. Bucky's eyes are open. 

He's achingly hard. 

Shifting on top of the blankets, Bucky gets his human hand to his cock, presses his palm against the hardness, and feels a jolt of pleasure. He tries to stifle a moan, but a cracked noise still comes out, and he feels Steve shift behind him. 

He can't do it. If he gets off here, he'll wake Steve up. If he gets up and goes to the bathroom, he'll still wake Steve up, and Steve _will_ check on him, because he's Steve. 

Regretfully, Bucky shifts his hand away from his erection, and just curls up tighter into himself. Even with a whole new kind of frustration coiling inside him, he finds himself excited. Pleased to know it is actually something he's still capable of feeling. If a lingering part of his mind wonders if he should feel guilty he's feeling it for Steve, he pays little heed to it. 

It takes a long time, but eventually Bucky sleeps.


	4. Chapter 4

When he jolts awake, it is to the cool air of the early morning coming in through the open door, and his metal hand around Steve's throat. 

He's crouched low over Steve, who has been pinned to the floor, looking wide eyed and sleep ruffled. They're both in the doorway. Steve gasps out something in an attempt at words. 'I – can't – breath – Bucky!--' 

Bucky starts. He wrenches his hand back, takes several staggering steps backward, into the motel room. 

'What the hell?' he snaps , holding his arm up, staring at the metal hand which is still distant and impersonal. 

Steve pushes himself up to his feet, his face dark. 'I think I should be asking you that,' he says plainly. 

Bucky shakes his head, furrowing his brows. 'Why... when did we get out of bed?' 

'Well,' Steve replies, crossing his arms over his chest. Bucky notes that he's deliberately blocking him from the entrance. ' _I_ got out of bed when I heard you going for the door.'

'No, that's not right,' Bucky says, but he can't-- he doesn't remember. 

'I grabbed your wrist,' Steve says, and points to the metal one. 'You didn't even turn around. Grabbed my throat and slammed me to the ground, then you were over me. Your eyes were open, Buck. You were trying to kill me.'

'It wasn't me,' Bucky says desperately, and Steve nods. 

'Yeah, I could see that,' he says. 'And I could see when you came back.' 

Bucky feels his knees go from underneath him, and suddenly he's on the floor, still staring at his hand. 

'I can't remember' he says. His voice is distant. 'Was I sleep walking?' 

'I want to believe that,' Steve says tightly. 'I want to think you were reacting instinctively to a perceived threat.' 

'But it's more likely I regressed,' Bucky says, distant. 

Steve's mouth is a hard, straight line. A far cry from the soft, open face of last night when Bucky had told him he couldn't remember the last time he came. It feels incongruous. Steve hasn't looked at him like this _at all_ so far, even if this is what Bucky deserves. He deserves this distrust, but now that he's receiving it, it feels like a blade lodged between his ribs. 

Bucky clenches and unclenches his metal fist, then buries his face in both hands. He lets out a low, muffled shout into his palms. 

Steve's hand comes to rest on his shoulder. 'Come on,' he says. His thumb brushes over Bucky's skin, rubbing soothingly. 'Get dressed, we'll set out and drive all day. Make it as far as we can. The sooner we get back to Washington, the better.' 

Bucky nods. He scrapes his hands down his face and looks up at Steve. 'Alright,' he says. 

Steve holds out his hand that isn't on Bucky's shoulder. 'Here,' he says. Bucky takes it and lets himself be pulled to his feet. 

He feels unsteady, but he's okay. Ducking his head at Steve, he slips out of his grip and moves over to where his clothes are sitting on the dresser. He's still in his jeans, at least, so he just tugs on his shirt and the blue jacket, before sitting on the edge of the bed and reaching for his shoes. As he's lacing them, he watches Steve change out of the corner of his eye, and then pull out his cell. 

'Hey Nat,' Steve says into the phone, balancing it between his shoulder and ear as he pulls on his own shoes. 'Yeah, no, we've had a bit of an incident, actually.'

There's a long pause, during which Bucky watches Steve's expression move from hardline to abashed to exasperated. Bucky is too far away to hear Natasha's side of the conversation, but he suspects an ' _I told you so_ ' is placed in there somewhere. 

'And as usual,' Steve says eventually, 'you were right. But it wasn't what you're thinking. It might just be nothing.' Pause. 'Well, I wouldn't say he _definitively_ tried to kill me. I think we're getting ahead of ourselves.' 

Bucky runs a hand through his hair, finds it tangled. Starts to pick at the knotted ends while Steve has his conversation.

'Pinned me to the floor with a hand around my neck?' … 'Yes, that hand.' … 'Well, I was half asleep. It's not like I couldn't have--' … 'Well, we'll see about that later.' … 'That sounds like a good idea. I didn't wake you, did I?' … 'I don't know, we'll drive as far as we can today.' … 'Good, Natasha, see you then.' 

Steve hangs up, and looks seriously at Bucky. 'Natasha is joining us,' he says. There isn't room for disagreement. 

'Understood.' 

'Because she has some experience with mind control, and with not being herself.' 

Bucky nods. 

'She has to finish an assignment first, so we'll give her our location this evening, wherever we end up, and she'll rendezvous with us overnight.' 

'Got it,' Bucky says. 

Steve stands up, checking everything is packed in his duffel bag. He tosses the hairbrush they bought yesterday at Bucky, who catches it. 

'Are you alright with this?' 

Bucky doesn't like it, exactly. He doesn't _like_ being around people he doesn't trust. But he recognizes the necessity in this instance. 'Can't take any risks,' he replies. 

Steve's face relaxes a little bit. 'Good,' he says, and blinks slowly, rubbing a hand over his eyes. 'Phew. What a way to wake up.' 

*

They drive. The highway is unraveling before them, a small fragment of an endless distance that cannot be seen in its entirety. Bucky watches the horizon, hands in his coat pockets and slouched back in the chair. For the longest time, it seems empty. Then, all of a sudden, it's not, the shape of a city materializing as if out of fog. 

Breakfast is a detour off the highway just outside Cheyenne. They go via a drive-thru coffee house, and don't stop in the town. Before long, it is behind them, and then the highway is all empty distance again. Bucky drinks his coffee slowly, and picks at his blueberry muffin. 

As he's lifting a small portion of the cake to his mouth, Bucky feels his arm jerk. He drops the morsel of muffin, crumbs spilling over his lap. Pain shoots up from his shoulder, where the metal is fused to his skin, and up his neck. It's like small electric shocks dancing under his skin, and it ends just behind his ear, sending sharp jolts across the back of his skull. 

'What was that?' the man behind the wheel of the car asks, glancing over at him. Bucky furrows his brows, looks at the man out the corner of his eyes. His hands tighten into fists in his pockets. He's unarmed, but that's fine. He can kill just as easily with his bare hands.

'… Where are you taking me?' he asks, voice hard. 

The man's hands tighten on the wheel. 'Washington,' he says. 'Remember, Buck?'

Bucky frowns, turns his head to inspect the man straight on. Then: 'It's you. From the bridge and the-- and the river,' he says. 'How did you find me?'

Slowly, the car pulls over to the side of the road, parking in soft grass just off the highway. 

And then it passes. Their eyes meet as Steve turns to look at him. Bucky squeezes his eyes shut. 'Oh, shit, Steve,' he says. 'Oh hell, no, shit shit shit.'

Steve turns to face him, twisting in the seat. His posture is relaxed and non-threatening, but Bucky can see the line of tension in the set of his jaw, in the poise of his shoulders. 'What was that?' he asks again, pointed. 

'It was a wipe,' Bucky answers. 

'A wipe.'

'Yeah, it was--' The metal arm is sending little aftershocks into his shoulder, and Bucky twitches, cracking his neck. 'Ow. Crude. They programmed a way to remotely wipe me into my arm, but it was no where near as effective as... anyway.'

Steve frowns. 'They're remotely wiping you?'

'No,' Bucky says, and tries to clench his metal fist. It does it. Feels more than disconnected. Like matching the movements of someone standing opposite him. Like a mirror that he sees blink. 'Malfunction, I think. It's been weird these last few days.'

'“Weird”,' Steve repeats. He reaches out to touch Bucky's metal arm. His fingers curl around the wrist, lifting it up, and thumb brushing over the palm. It looks like he'd being tender. Bucky gnaws on the inside of his lip. 'Can you feel that?'

'Nope.'

Steve runs his fingers over the metal of the arm. Just inside the crevice of the elbow, he pauses. 'Does it open here?' 

'Yeah, you can get into the inner workings with a screwdriver. Its all wires and shit. I don't know what I'm looking at.'

'I wouldn't either,' Steve says. 'We need to get you to Tony Stark.' Steve lifts his gaze away from Bucky's arm, and looks him dead in the eye. 'I want to call in a Quinjet, but if you don't want to--'

'I don't,' Bucky says. 

'– I'm willing to keep going, _only_ because Natasha is joining us, and on the condition that you _keep me updated_.'

Bucky nods. He feels like he's being unreasonable – he knows he is – and he doesn't like it. He wants to be stalwart and practical and measured. But he also knows that he needs to take things slow, and that he _does not_ want to get in an aircraft. More so after yesterday. 

And, although he won't say it out loud, he knows that every minute spent with Steve brings back more of who he is. And even if its not always good, he wants that. 

'I mean it,' Steve says. He lets go of Bucky's metal arm, moving his hands over to the real one instead. One grips his shoulder, the other pulling his wrist around so that Bucky is facing him. 'Everything. Your arm does something weird? Tell me. You forget something? Tell me. You _remember_ something? Tell me. You get a weird feeling that you can't quite place? I need to know, Buck. I need to keep us both safe.'

'I've kept myself safe a long time,' Bucky replies. 

'Different,' says Steve, shaking his head. His hand tightens around Bucky's wrist. Bucky's hand twitches, his fingers curling to brush at where Steve is touching him. 'And not the point. You said the other night that I shouldn't sleep with my back to you. I don't want to have to worry that you're right.'

Bucky ducks his head, looking at down where Steve is holding his arm. In his periphery, he can see Steve follow his gaze, and then his hand shifts – lets go of his wrist and slides down to hold Bucky's hand in his own. Bucky grips back, tight. 

'Sure thing, Steve,' he says. 'You got it. 100% transparency, here on out.'

Steve's lip twitches. 'Great.' He runs his thumb over the back of Bucky's hand. 'So, the wipe?'

Bucky shrugs. 'They're nothing. It's just like... recent memories. They're designed not to disorient. It's funny, I just... lose a whole chunk of time, but it doesn't seem wrong. Don't feel like I've lost anything. Don't look so worried, Steve,' he says. 'They're useless. Unravel at the slightest trigger. Once, I was wiped during a mission – the guy I killed gave me some information that they didn't want me knowing, just some political bullshit, as if I even gave a fuck. They remotely wiped me. I was still standing over the guy's body. They wiped me, and I was still looking at the guy. It didn't even take. I got the memories back _while they were erasing the memories_. The only thing I did forget was the exit route of the building, which fucked everything up, and the kill count of the mission ended up being double what it was meant to be.'

Bucky laughs. Steve doesn't.

'I guess you had to be there,' he adds. 

'So if you wipe again,' Steve asks, 'what are the odds you'll lash out and try to kill me? Is that what happened this morning?'

Pulling his hand out of Steve's grip to rub it down his face, Bucky thinks. This morning had just felt like sleepwalking, and a rude awakening. He has no idea where he'd been going, or whether he'd been going anywhere in particular. 'Maybe?' he says to Steve. 'I don't know, it felt different. Coming back. It was less... smooth. More of a jolt, and coming back from a wipe is like, its like when you... smell something you haven't for years, and suddenly you're back in another place or time or with someone, and you didn't even realize you forgot it until you smell it again, and it isn't painful or distressing it's just... there.'

Bucky pauses, and Steve hand on his shoulder is warm and steady. 'If something happens,' he says, 'again, you put me down, okay, Steve? Knock me out, pin me, kill me if you have to.'

'Bucky...' Steve says, and shifts his hand up, thumb brushing Bucky's neck. His hand is gripping just a little too firmly, but then it softens, and Steve's face softens, and he says with a slight smirk: 'Natasha will see to that, I'm sure.'

Bucky's face scrunches up. 'I think I like this woman,' he says. 

Steve shifts back into his seat properly, and turns the key in the ignition. 'We'll keep going,' he says, and passes Bucky back his coffee from the tray between them. 'Drink up.'

It's cold now, but Bucky downs the rest of the Americano in one. 'We're going to have to stop for more,' he tells Steve. 'I'm not sleeping today.'

'I think it might be a good idea,' Steve nods, pulling them back out onto the highway. 'And remember, _anything weird_ , tell me straight away.'

'I'll caw three times,' Bucky replies, leaning his head against the window. 'Or a codeword. _Totonno_.'

Steve glances over, raising an eyebrow. 'Totonno's is where we used to get pizza,' he hums. 

The grass alongside the highway starts to blur, green smudges against the dusted gray road. 'Is it?' Bucky murmurs, and smiles softly. He turns his head so that Steve can't see his grin. 

*

It's what he was saying about smells taking you back to different times and places. And people. 

They don't really stop for lunch. They just pull up to a drive through and grab burgers and fries that they can eat while they travel, and park for two minutes while Bucky goes to use the bathroom. He washes his hands and exits back through the restaurant, and passes someone – doesn't even see them – who is wearing a perfume that makes him pause. 

He keeps walking, because he can see Steve watching him carefully from the car, and he won't keep him waiting. But he lets the smell linger in his senses, and feels like he's been transported back in time. 

Everything is _time_ for Bucky. 

'Your mom,' he says, as he climbs back into the passenger seat and reaches for the seat belt. 

'Mmm? I'm assuming you don't mean that the way Clint did.'

'Huh?'

'I'll explain later. What about my mom?'

'There was a woman inside, she wore the same perfume as her I think. Uh, I just...' Bucky trails off. 'Thursdays,' he continues eventually. 'When she worked at the garment factory, she got paid on Thursdays, didn't she? And she'd bring us home a PayDay, and we'd go halves.'

Steve laughs. 'Yeah, a PayDay on pay day,' he says. 

Bucky's smile fades, and suddenly he's frowning looking confused. Steve glances over, concerned. 

'What's wrong?'

'Didn't my sister live with us?' he asks. 'After dad died, and we moved in with you?'

'No,' Steve says. 'Rebecca went to boarding school.'

'Oh,' Bucky says. 

'You were in an orphanage after your dad passed away, Buck. You moved in with mom and I later.'

'Oh, right.' Bucky reflects on this, unwrapping his cheeseburger. 'I don't remember that.'

Steve glances over. 'She came to visit over the summer, sometimes,' he says. 'We had to get the kitchen knife once and divide that PayDay three ways because she insisted we all had even pieces.'

Bucky smiles. 'I think that's what I was remembering,' he replies. He lifts up a sleeve of fries and wedges them between Steve's knees. 'Do you want me to unwrap your burger?'

'Thanks.'

Bucky unfolds the paper around the burger, wrapping it up so Steve can eat it easily with one hand and passes it over. He watches Steve carefully. The other man is chewing his lip, not the fries or the burger, and watching the road like it holds the answer to an unasked question. 

'What is it?' Bucky asks. 

'Rebecca is still alive,' Steve replies after a brief pause. 'I looked her up. Visited her. She's in a retirement home, but its a nice one, the staff were lovely.'

Bucky is quiet for a moment. 'The boarding school was a nice one too,' he comments. 'I didn't think she'd still-- when did you see her?'

'Before you came back,' Steve replies. The burger is still hovering in the air between them, glistening with ketchup and mustard. 'I think I mostly just confused her. Her memory... isn't so great.'

'Must run in the family...'

'And its not like with Peggy. She comes and goes, but she was always S.H.I.E.L.D. She has a frame of reference, even when-- I think Rebecca thought I was, uh, a visitation from the beyond, or something. Or that she was losing more than just her memories.'

Bucky swallows, and he says: 'I didn't realize Peggy was still, either.'

'Oh,' Steve replies. 'Yeah, well. You remember her very well?'

'I remember her not even looking my way,' Bucky teases, with a slight smile. Then it disappears. 'I should visit her. Rebecca.' He looks at Steve, who is glancing away from the road to shoot him a hesitant look. 'Unless, do you think she'd be able... She can't see me like this, can she?'

'It might be hard on her,' Steve says cautiously. 'But it might be good for you. And she'd love to see you again, even if she finds it... disorienting.'

Bucky sighs. 'Maybe that also runs in the family.'

They're both quiet for a long time, and Steve finally starts to eat as he drives them along the road. Bucky gets lost in the fragments of memories he has of his little sister. He can't see her, he tells himself. Rebecca should remember him as a fallen war hero. Not what came after. She'd always looked up to him so much, to see him like this...

Suddenly Bucky jerks in the seat, his back straightening and his hands coming out to press against the dashboard. Steve almost slams on the breaks, clearly ready to deal with a flash of the Winter Soldier, not Bucky. But then Bucky says, 'Rebecca!' and he can hear the shock in his own voice. 

Steve doesn't slam the car to a halt, but he does look over at Bucky in alarm. 

'I've seen her,' Bucky says, not really realizing the words are true until he says them. This isn't memories coming back to him, this is him pulling memories out of the knot of his mind, tugging at various tangled threads until he makes an indent on the frustrating, raveled, torturous maze of his brain. Finally, something gives. 'I... went off the grid,' he grits out. 'As the Winter Soldier. It was a long time ago, I don't know exactly when. I did a mission, and it went like every other mission.' Bucky lifts up his metal hand – even though it still feels distant and apart – and makes a little gun with his fingers, pretending to fire it. It has to be that hand. 'I didn't report back in with my handlers. They were very... unimpressed... when they eventually got me back. But that's not the point.'

'What happened, Buck?' 

'I was blending back into the crowd, I think it was down near Brighton Beach, I was knocking off some Soviet official ex-pat. But I heard someone call out – she said “ _Bucky_ ” and it didn't register, but I knew they were calling _me_. I looked at her. It was a women in her forties, carrying her shopping under her arm and paused in front of a wood-paneled blue Ford. I considered killing her to silence... but I couldn't. I didn't know why. I just... disappeared.' Bucky looks at Steve, open and pained. 'It was Rebecca, Steve,' he says, voice catching in his throat. 

Steve's expression is almost equally distraught. 'It's okay, Bucky,' he says, unconvincing. 

Bucky shuts his eyes tight, and throws his head back against the headrest. 'Everything!' he groans. 'You think its not so bad for five fucking minutes, and then suddenly you remember something fucking awful, and to hell with everything! It's all fucked up, and every fucked up thing I did sent fucking ripples of fucked uppedness into every good goddamn thing in my life, probably!'

'There are still plenty of good things,' Steve says, his voice quiet like he's trying to placate him. Like he's talking to a growling, barking dog. 

'Yeah, sure,' Bucky grits out, 'but they're all-- I don't get to enjoy them without seeing them through this lens that's all scratched and just...' He grits his teeth. 'I hope Rebecca just thought, you know, striking resemblance, something.'

'I'm sure she did,' Steve says. 'And it means that you were still in there.'

Bucky's voice is rough when he says: 'Isn't that worse, though?'


	5. Chapter 5

The rest of the day passes slowly. The sun is hot on the glass, but the car is cool from the air-con. The stereo stays off. They don't talk much. They drive, and drive, and drive, and drive. They drive alongside a railway for quite a while, seeing the occasional train blur past. They drive through towns and stop only long enough to piss and grab more coffee. 

Steve seems as lost in his thoughts as Bucky is. Either that, or he's just giving Bucky the privacy to be lost in his thoughts. Bucky appreciates the quiet, regardless, and uses the time to unbuckle his seat belt and twist around in the chair so he's leaning against the window, facing Steve, with his feet on the seat. He ignores Steve's _tsk_ , with the justification that he had the manners to take his shoes off. 

And if they crash, Bucky knows how to roll with it so that he'll smash through the front window with his metal arm protecting his face, and land on his feet. What could Steve be worried about?

He suspects Steve assumes he's thinking about Rebecca. And he is, for a while. But he only has so many memories of his little sister and after a while his thoughts start to drift, and by the time they're driving in the growing gloom, Bucky is just watching the shape of Steve's face, the minute movements of his shoulders as he drives and thinking about, well, nothing really. Just watching. 

It's calming. 

Bucky wonders if he used to watch Steve like this: he's pretty sure he did. He knows how he used to think about Steve – remembered that last night. He wonders if Steve knew, whether he ever told him how he felt. They weren't... anything. Bucky knows he'd know _that_ by now. But he wonders if Steve was aware. 

Eventually, Steve looks at him with a grin. 'What are you looking at?' It's getting pretty dark outside now – they're not far from Des Moines, so they'll stop there over night. Steve already had Bucky text Natasha, dictating every word and emoticon so that it doesn't come across sounding short. 

'Your stupid mug,' Bucky replies. 'We stopping soon?'

'Should get into town any minute,' Steve says. 'Keep an eye out for vacancies. How you feeling, buddy?'

'Calling me “buddy” now won't stop me blocking off your windpipe later if I lose myself again, you realize that, yeah?' Bucky says, immediately feeling like he's being meaner than he meant to. He likes Steve talking to him like they're old friends, because he _knows_ that they are. But he also hates it, because he doesn't want to be complicit in it if he ends up hurting him later. 

He expects Steve to respond with hurt, or patient understanding. Instead, he just smirks. 

'Aw, is someone grumpy and tired?' he says, pouting mockingly. 

Bucky blinks, then starts, pushing himself off the window and pressing two fingers against his forehead. 'Oh, hang on,' he says. 'I'm remembering something! Hell, what is it? Oh, that's right: you're an asshole, Rogers!'

Steve laughs. 'Why do you think we were friends?' he quips. 

Bucky narrows his eyes. ' _Are_ ,' he corrects, pointedly. 

Steve's eyebrows shoot up. 'Yeah, Buck, of course.'

They're finally entering town, and Bucky moves to sit in his seat properly again so he can keep a look out for motels along the road. It is dark enough that everything flickering past is just lights in houses filtered through drawn curtains, and little circles of street lights and the static of televisions. It doesn't take long for them to come across a motel and pull into the car park. There is one other vehicle in the lot. 

Steve bumps shoulders with Bucky once they're out of the car, his duffel bouncing on his back. 'Looks like we won't have to bunk tonight,' he says. 

Buck tries not to sound disappointed in his hummed agreement. They wander into the reception, and Steve goes up to the ashen pink counter to secure them a room. Bucky hangs back, lingering by the rack of maps and tourist guides. One has a photo of an ice-skating rink dusted with snow and a lone couple twirling on it. Another, a white wire sculpture in front of a tall building. Another has a bridge lit up at sunset, the backdrop tinted gold. Bucky flicks through them, not reading or really taking anything in. 

Steve taps him on the back. 'Room sixteen,' he says, holding a key-card between his fingers. He glances over Bucky's shoulder. 'Or would you like to go ice-skating first?'

'No.' Closing the pamphlet, Bucky follows Steve out of the reception and along the line of rooms. 'The ape conservation center sounds cool though.'

Steve chuckles. 'Bear it in mind. Alright, we should get settled in and call Nat with our location.'

That doesn't turn out to be necessary. Steve opens the door, and slips the key-card into the slot on the wall: the lights flicker on, and Natasha is sitting on the end of one of the twin beds, running a brush through her hair. She's in uniform, Bucky notes. A tight, form-fitting black jumpsuit. It's lightly covered in dust, like she's recently been near a falling, possibly burning, structure. 

Steve looks at Bucky with a grin, catching the expression on his face and stage whispers: 'Sam has called dibs.'

Bucky blinks. 'No, I--'

Natasha stands up, wandering over to pull Steve into a friendly hug. 'I haven't ratified any dibs lately,' she says. 'Can you get him to lodge it formally? I would do it myself, but I hate to seem too keen.'

'How did you--' Bucky asks, glancing back over his shoulder at the door, then at Natasha again. 

'Barnes,' she says as Steve lets her down from the embrace that has her on her toes. 'We're finally meeting... properly.'

But Bucky is still too bemused to respond. 'I mean, I get it, I can infiltrate a hotel room with the best of them, but we got assigned a room _literally thirty seconds ago_.'

Steve pats him on the shoulder. 'Don't think about it too much,' he says, as Natasha holds out a hand for him to shake. 

'Don't call me Barnes,' he says finally, taking it. Natasha raises an eyebrow. 'Bucky is fine.'

'I think I'll go with James, then,' she says, and then steps back, looking them over. 'Well, we're all healthy happy right now, I see. What's the plan, Cap? Take shifts watching over him tonight?'

'That was my thinking,' Steve says, rubbing his neck. 'We'll get some dinner delivered--'

'Ooh, Chinese,' Natasha interjects. 'Go on.'

'– then I'll take the first watch, since you're just back from a mission. At about oh-one-hundred we'll swap.'

'Sounds good,' she says. Bucky finds himself making a face, still lingering by the door as the other two move into the room, Steve unloading his bag, and Natasha throwing herself down on the little sofa by the wall. He has a sudden, very strong, feeling of being both scrutinized and peripheral at once. Steve is quickly laughing and chatting with Natasha, as she recounts the story of the mission she just returned from. He joins her on the sofa, pulling out his phone to work out which restaurants nearby deliver, and Bucky slinks quietly over to the bed to sit down. 

He shucks off his jacket, the bright blue of it lying in contrast to the ugly orange comforter on the bed. 

'How did you even find a mission this fast?' Steve says, and passes his cell across to her. 'This place looks good.'

Natasha takes the phone, flicking through the menu. 'What can I say, I'm a workaholic. Just pick something each, or are we going to share a bunch of dishes?'

'I don't mind,' Steve says, and glances up at Bucky, who just shrugs. He doesn't care what they eat. 

Natasha just says something about ordering for all of them, and goes about selecting a bunch of things off the app, as Steve looks at Bucky curiously. 'You okay?'

Bucky nods, leaning back on the bed to rest on his elbows. 'Sure.'

Steve's arm is slung over the back of the sofa, Natasha's head tilted back to bump against it, and they're smiling at each other and chatting like they haven't seen each other in a month, not three days. Bucky's not _jealous_. It's been made perfectly clear that Natasha and Steve are just friends. Very, very good friends, but definitely just that.

Bucky is just, he's just apart from anything like that. So, he watches. 

'He's not vegetarian or anything I take it? Gluten intolerant?' Natasha asks Steve, who chuckles. 

'Nah, I'm pretty sure he'd happily eat nothing but bread based products with meat on or in them if he could,' he replies, and then looks over, as if just realizing they're talking about Bucky as if he's not there. 'Right Buck?'

'And pelmeni,' he replies, earning a blank look from Steve, but a suddenly bright one from Natasha. 

' _Sam and I made sauerkraut pelmeni the other night!_ ' she says in Russian, and Bucky perks up in interest. 

' _I'm a terrible cook,_ ' he replies, matching the language because he quite enjoys the look of sudden confusion on Steve's face. _I can't make much more then beans and toast. I haven't had pelmeni since..._ He trails off, unsure. Not since he got his memories back. He was in deep freeze before that. He hedges a guess: ' _Ninety-three?_ '

Natasha looks shocked. 

' _It hasn't felt like that long,_ ' he clarifies. 

' _That needs remedying, _' Natasha says sternly, and Bucky smiles softly but notes that if it was Steve, the response would have been more along the lines of ' _the moment we get home, we're fixing that, Buck._ ' Natasha is careful not to commit to remedying it herself. Wise. __

' _Da_ ,' Natasha says with a wink, and tosses the cell phone she's still holding back over to Steve. 'Those are your credit details, right?' she asks. 

'Yup,' Steve says, apparently not minding that Natasha has them memorized. 

The order is placed, Natasha goes back to her story about the mission which Bucky doesn't care too much to listen to. He's had enough, quite enough, of dangerous undercover missions that end with structures collapsing for a, well, a while, at least. So instead, he just slouches further and further down the bed until he's reclining, and stares up at the ceiling, trying not to fall asleep. 

He's tired. He'd lain awake far too long last night thinking about Captain America getting himself off in the shower. He considers having a shower of his own, but decides against it. He has a nagging feeling that getting hard last night was, if not a one off thing, not something that's going to come quite as easily as it might once have. Not when his mind so frequently drifts to blood and death. 

Sighing, Bucky blinks rapidly, watching spots form on the smoke stained ceiling. 

Steve interrupts Natasha's story with a quick, 'Sorry, one moment,' and calls over to Bucky, concerned: 'Are you falling asleep over there?'

'Not until after dinner,' Bucky mumbles. 'Don't worry, not g'nna kill no one.'

'Do you want to come over here? There is space on the chair.'

'No there's not,' replies Bucky truthfully. It's built for two people, and Steve is basically both of them on his own, so it looks cozy enough with just him and Natasha. _Snuggling_ with the two of them on a musty old motel sofa while he dozes idly like an overtired four year old? Nope. 

So he stays there on the bed, hovering on the edge of sleep until the food arrives, at which point he manages to push himself up and drag himself over the other side of the room. Thankfully, Natasha elects to spread the food out on the floor since there are only two chairs at the little table, and they eat sitting on the ground. Natasha and Steve sit cross legged, but Bucky just sprawls out, mostly forgoing cutlery to lift egg rolls and dumplings into his mouth with his metal hand. 

'It's clean,' he insists, at Natasha's raised eyebrow. The process gets a little more complicated with regards to the pork noodles. But Bucky manages, much to Steve's exasperation. 

After the meal is finished, and all the empty plastic containers stacked one on top of the other on their little table, Bucky can't stop yawning. Steve and Natasha engage in a bit of slightly more serious discussion about keeping watch over Bucky and what the plan is for the next day. They speak with low voices, but not low enough to be deliberately hiding anything from Bucky, so he decides not to listen. 

Instead, he just stumbles back over to the bed, and stretches out horizontally across the base. 

'If we make good time,' Natasha is saying, 'we can be in Toledo by tomorrow. That's if there are no other issues with your friend.' 

There is a frown carried in Steve's voice. Bucky closes his eyes. 'And if there is?'

'We incapacitate him, call in a Quinjet, and get him back to the good ex-S.H.I.E.L.D. people we have.'

'I think we should take him to Tony.'

'He needs help from people who deal with mental programming, not … whatever you call what Tony does.'

'The arm malfunctioned earlier. He says its been being weird since we set out.'

There's silence for a moment. 'The arm is just a tool,' Natasha says eventually. 'I'm familiar with what he's going through. He flipped out when he was sleeping last night? That's when his mind is at its most vulnerable. It's when his programming is most likely to take control, when he's not processing rationally and just acting on instinct.'

'So, Washington, or Manhattan?'

'I'm advocating Washington. But either way, we're headed to Toledo tomorrow. If I see any evidence for this “evil arm” theory, I'm open to being convinced, I guess.'

'I'm not saying he has an evil arm,' Steve says with a sigh. 

'It sounds like you're saying he has an evil arm.'

Bucky lets out a huff from the bed, cracks one eye open. Steve glances at him. 

'You asleep over there?' he asks. 

'Nope.'

Natasha gets up, stretching. 'Where do you fall on the evil arm theory, James?'

Bucky grunts. 'Don't talk to me about this _Buck Rogers_ crap,' he says, and drifts off into a half-sleep. 

When his eyes open again not long after – no more than fifteen minutes or half an hour – Natasha is lying in the bed opposite him and the lights are out. He's still sprawled out the wrong way on the mattress, so he shifts around and finally crawls onto the stiff, cool pillow. Natasha is fast asleep, as on command and regulated as anything. Bucky used to be able to do that too. 

Through half-lidded eyes, he glances across the room to watch Steve. He's still on the couch, lit up only by the blue light of his phone screen, watching Bucky right back, because Bucky moved. 

'Just getting comfortable,' Bucky murmurs, barely a breath in the quiet room. His voice is hoarse with exhaustion, and he suspects he won't be awake long enough to even see Steve go back to playing solitaire or whatever he's doing. 

He's wrong. He watches Steve nod and smile softly at him, and watches as his eyes drop back to his phone, and his fingers start dancing across the screen. His eyes are heavy and exhausted, but he watches the shape of Steve's shoulders in the dim light, tinted off-yellow from the street lamp through the curtains. He watches for a slow minute where he hovers on the edge of sleep, and then that minute stretches into ten, and then Bucky is wide awake, watching Steve put his phone down and get a glass of water half an hour later. 

He must see Bucky's eyes reflect in the dark, because he pauses, glass in hand. 

'Go to sleep, Buck,' he breaths. 'You're exhausted.' 

''M tryin'.' 

Steve stays where he's standing for a long moment, then wanders back over to the sofa and sits down. 'Do you want to come over here?' he murmurs. 

Bucky groans softly. He's warm and comfortable, still fully dressed except for his coat, right down to his boots. The bed is both firm and soft, sculpting itself to the shape of his body. But he's not sleeping. He knows getting up and moving is the only thing for it now. 

Real arm shaking slightly, he pushes himself up and climbs off the bed. Steve makes room on the couch. 

'Mmph,' Bucky says, and sits down heavily. 

Steve quirks his lips, all soft, defined angles in the dull light. 'Why can't you sleep?' 

'Aw hell, who knows,' Bucky says, and wipes his nose with the back of his hand. 'Don't wanna be subject to... not being me. Don't wanna wake up somewhere else. Don't wanna dream about, things.' 

Steve nods. 'Do you want to talk about anything?' he asks. 

'Nope,' replies Bucky, shaking his head and sinking back into the couch cushions. His leg is pressed up against Steve's warm thigh, and Steve has his arm over the back of the couch again, like he had it with Natasha. Carefully, and possibly due to over-tiredness, Bucky shifts so that he's pressed closer to Steve's open side. So that he can feel him when he breaths, feel the warmth of him. 

'Actually, yeah,' he says, after a moment. 'Can I ask you something?' 

Sincerely, Steve replies: 'Anything, Buck.' As if there was ever another answer. 

Bucky pauses for a moment, trying to work out what exactly it is he wants to know. He's finding it difficult, he thinks, to navigate how he feels about things – killing, life, _Steve_ – without knowing his own frame of reference behind them. He knows he was a killer before he became the Winter Soldier. Remembers parts of the war, although, its funny how similar cold wars and hot wars can seem when you're behind the gun. Does the fact that he was a murderer before change how he feels about the murders he's committed since? In both cases, he was doing it for his country. He was a weapon at every turn, never the man wielding it. What does that say about him?

He could ask Steve any of that, but instead he says: 'Did you know? Back in the days, when – before the war.' 

Steve looks confused. He's still warm against Bucky. His hand has come down to rest on Bucky's shoulder. 'Know what?' 

'How I felt about you. I remember, I remember the way I felt, I think. Or most of it. And I know we weren't, we never... And I was wondering if you knew, or if there were other reasons we didn't.' 

Steve is silent for the longest time. So long that Bucky almost starts to feel like he's drifting off to sleep. Finally, voice even lower than the quiet tones they've been keeping, he says, 'Uh, no, Bucky. I didn't know that.' 

'Oh,' Bucky murmurs. He pauses. 'Did I drop a bomb just now?' 

With a glance, Bucky can see Steve lifting his hand up to swipe at his hairline as if flattening his part. 'Yes, yeah, you kinda did.' 

Bucky can't help but let out a soft laugh. 'Long time to keep a secret,' he mutters tiredly. 

'Long time to...' Steve lets out a long breath. 'You really saying you carried a torch for me, Bucky?' 

'Yeah,' Bucky mumbles. 'It would seem that way.' 

Steve is quiet for another long stretch of time, before asking, incredulous: ' _Before_ the war?' 

'Yep.'

'You used to call me a dogface little punk.'

Bucky huffs. 'Affectionately, Steve, _affectionately_.' He doesn't actually remember that. Sounds like something he'd say and not mean though. 

He's so tired. Steve has stiffened beside him, but he still has an arm around Bucky's shoulders, and if anything he's holding him a little tighter. 

'What about now?' Steve says, and then immediately shakes his head. 'No, you shouldn't answer that Bucky. I shouldn't have asked you that.' 

'Nah, it's fine. I'll tell you the truth, Steve. I don't know how I feel. About you. About me. Hell, I don't know how I feel about _anything_. It's so hard just to have _opinions_ , to know I'm allowed opinions.' He looks at Steve with a slight grin and sleepy eyes. 'I still think you're a hunk.'

'That's your opinion, is it?' Steve asks, teasingly. 

'That's my opinion.' 

Steve somewhat relaxes, and definitely tightens his hand on Bucky's shoulder to pull him in closer. They sit like that for a while, Bucky dozing just off of sleep, gradually slouching until he is more or less lying against Steve's chest. His hand – the real one – falls onto Steve's thigh and begins to trace lazy circles. 

'How 'bout you?' he asks at last. 

'Yeah,' Steve murmurs. 'Yeah, me too, Buck.'

'Swell.' He drums his fingers against Steve's leg, then sucks in a breath. 'Great timing, huh? Missed the window by a good--' He glances at his watch-less metal wrist '– Seventy years. That's gotta be a record.' 

'You think we missed the window?' 

'What would you call it? And _don't_ say “opening a new one”.' 

Steve is silent. 

'You were going to say that, weren't you?' Bucky mutters. 

'I was.' 

Bucky laughs under his breath. 'Oh my god, _oh my god_ , you are _such_ a sad-sack little pu--' 

Steve cuts him off, lifting his hand to tilt Bucky's chin upwards, and presses his lips softly against Bucky's laughing mouth. 

The kiss is short, and sweet, and Bucky is the first to pull away. 'I'm fucked up, Steve,' he breaths. 

'No, you--' 

'Yes, I am.' He twists around, his body aching with exhaustion, and presses another kiss against Steve's lips, insistent. 'It's fine, I just. I'll get to bed. We'll talk about this. Tomorrow. When I'm less delirious and sleep deprived, okay?' 

'Okay,' Steve says, as Bucky sways and stumbles his way onto his feet. 'That sounds sensible.' 

Halfheartedly, Bucky punches the air. 'Sensible,' he whispers triumphantly. 'That's rare. Yeah, go me.' He climbs back on the bed, stretching out over the sheets, and buries his head in the pillow. 

Bucky sleeps.


	6. Chapter 6

The Winter Soldier gets his bearings carefully, not moving from the soft bed. He knows it would be a risk to fight the Black Widow. She is perched on one of the chairs at a rickety little table, only a few feet away, watching him attentively. He has his back to her, but he can see her reflection in the window above the kitchenette. 

He is deliberately careful not to move. He keeps his breathing even, feigning sleep. 

The Winter Soldier is aware of how well matched he and the Widow are in a fight. He is fast, yes, but she is faster. She moves like she can alight on air, her momentum untethered. He is stronger than her, his metal arm an advantage, but only if he has the element of surprise. He won't be able to take her out quietly – it has to be quiet, or he will be fighting both of them, and that is too much risk – if she sees him coming, so his best course of action is to wait. 

The Winter Soldier does not know what he is waiting for, but he lies still and steady until it comes:

Somewhere outside, a car backfires. The sound is like a gunshot. It doesn't afford much of a distraction, but the Black Widow's head turns like a whip. She quickly determines that there is no threat, but it is too late. 

In that short moment, the Soldier is on her. 

Metal arm – functional, fluid – comes up around her throat in a choke hold. Other hand covers her mouth and nose so tight that she can't alert the Captain, who sleeps on. 

He holds her off the ground. She fights back, of course: an elbow to the solar plexus, the back of her skull cracked into his nose. It hurts, and blood falls over his lips, but he holds on tight. Holds her until she is still and limp. Drops her on the bed. 

He looks down at her; face red, red hair fanned over the bed-spread, and sees the rise and fall of her chest. Not dead then; unconscious. He hesitates, looks between her and the Captain on the other bed, who breaths the soft, deep breaths of sleep. 

He should kill them both and leave no witnesses. Leave no trail, nothing to track. Leave nothing behind that could speak of him ever having been here. 

Instead, the Winter Soldier moves silently to the motel room door, and disappears into the night. 

*

'He can't have been gone long,' Natasha is saying as Steve blinks his eyes open. It's still dark, but the first hints of morning light are peeking through the curtains. The words break through the soft barrier of sleep, slipping under something in his unconscious that wakes him immediately. 

Steve is sitting up before he's even fully aware of his surroundings. 

'Bucky?' he asks, the word croaked out past a dryness in his mouth from heavy sleep. 

Natasha's reply is brusque, if distant sounding. 'Gone.'

She is sitting on the other bed, head in her hands, blurry around the edges. Steve blinks, and she comes into focus. Her hair is hanging like a curtain over her face, fingers pressed hard into her temples. 'Knocked me out, but it can't have been for very long,' she grits out. 

Steve's heart is thudding in his chest like he's ninety-eight pounds again with arrhythmia. 'Okay, we'll move out,' he says, getting to his feet. 

'Steve—'

'We've got to go, Nat. 

'Steve, even without much of a head start, the Winter Soldier is very adept at disappearing. You remember how many times it seemed like we were onto him only to find the trail completely cold.'

'Yeah, which is why we need to move _now_.'

'Agreed,' Natasha says, reasonably, and gets to her feet, swaying a little and pressing her palm hard against her forehead. Steve steps forward in concern, hands coming out to steady her. 'Sorry, he really- I'm okay,' she grits out. 'Just could use an aspirin. Anyway, I was going to say we need backup. We need to call Sam.'

Steve nods. 'We will. On the way,' he says. 'Can you walk?'

'I could foxtrot if you asked me,' Natasha replies, although she doesn't look so convincing. Her face is pale, lips the same color as her skin – but her eyes are set and determined, and she starts to stride towards the door. 

'Let's move.'

*

It is dark where the Winter Soldier is. There is a light-bulb, but the fuse has long since shorted. There is a ratted couch that smells of mold and damp, and a broken foosball table. He stays quiet – doesn't rest on the sofa, doesn't relax more than a ready crouch. 

He won't be here long, but it is better to lay low and let them pass him by than it is to move in the open. At least for now. The sun has mostly risen, taking the shadows away along with the night, and although the Soldier is good at blending in, he knows that a turned up collar and a baseball cap will not fool the Captain. He's not quite sure how he knows that, but he does. 

He knows that the Captain's face is familiar in such a way that he could recognize him from the gait of his walk, from the sound of him breathing, from one word spoken to him. And the Captain would recognize him in the same manner. Which is why it is best to stay hidden, for now. 

There is a house above him, a family. He can hear their footsteps echo on tile and wood. A child's voice, screaming. The Winter Soldier isn't bothered by screams – he's heard enough of them. You learn to block them out. The girl upstairs is screaming because she doesn't want to go to school. The Soldier can't hear the mother's responses: her voice is low and calm, he can just hear the young girl's wails and her light feet stamping, stamping on the floor. 

Time passes. The girl is taken into a car, still screaming, and driven away. The house is quiet. The Soldier knows that he will be unnoticed down here – this basement is rarely used. Dust is settled over everything and the place is cool and damp.

Time passes. The car returns, minus child. He hears music playing upstairs, muffled and distant. He is on the alert for every sound, every change in the environment, but he knows he is safe. Even if the woman does come down into the basement for whatever reason, he can easily eliminate her and be long gone before anyone finds the body. 

It wouldn't be ideal. His mission is to make rendezvous without being seen. 

He wonders whether the two tracking him will have left town yet. They will not go door to door in suburbia, asking to check every basement. Of that he is pretty sure. His fingers twitch to move. He knows where to go, directions and coordinates being fed into his mind like the filtered memories of dreams. But a cover of darkness will be better. 

Time passes. The car leaves and returns. He hears the little girl talking excitedly to her mother on the way into the house. Time passes. Another car parks overhead. The television upstairs is turned on. The Soldier stays silent. There is laughter over dinner and fights over bath-time, and then finally silence. Time passes. 

The Winter Soldier moves silently out, leaving behind no evidence he was ever there, except for a section of shifted dust on the arm of the sofa he was leaning against.

*

The Winter Soldier moves through the night, fast like a shadow that is only glimpsed out of the corner of the eye. 

He should be paying better attention to his surroundings, but he can move on autopilot, unseen. He is not present. 

The Winter Soldier is back somewhere else, some other time. 

He is standing inside the entrance way of a two story suburban household, gun pointed steadily at a man, who is paused on the stairs. The man is wearing blue and white striped boxer briefs and his stomach protrudes over the waistband with the heavy swell of middle age and comfort. His hair is fair and balding, his face lined and eyes sharp. 

'Please do not do this,' the man says, in English. It is not his mother tongue. 'I have a daughter, please.'

There is scattered evidence of this, that the Soldier can see. A drying rack in the living room down the hallway with a school uniform and a small yellow dress drying on it. Socks with lace frills. A doll on the hallway dresser, long braids and drawn on eyes, with a patchwork dress. 

He is not meant to hesitate, but he does. 

He responds to the man in English as well, rather than Russian. They will understand each other fine either way. 'Is she here?' he asks. 

'Upstairs,' the man says. 'Asleep. I do not want her to find her father's body, please.'

The Soldier moves up the stairs, past the man. He pushes him to his hands and knees as he moves beside him, telling him to stay where he is. He comes up onto the upstairs landing and sees an ajar door with the letter 'J' written on it in a decorative design. She is asleep in the darkness, and the Winter Soldier does not linger long. 

On his way downstairs, the Soldier takes the half-naked, balding man by the back of the neck, pulling and pushing him down the stairs and towards the front door. 'You'll be silent if you don't want her to hear,' he says to him, and the man is obediently quiet as he stumbles after him, out into the street. 

It is unwise to take the man into the open. He should simply kill him and the daughter both. Kill the daughter first, perhaps, so that she does not scream. The man is smart enough not to shout for help. But the thought twists in his stomach like worms, like weakness. Has the Soldier shot children before? He cannot remember. Against his programming, he hopes not. 

'If you get in the car,' the Soldier says, 'I will take us somewhere she will not hear you die. You will stay low. Do not call for help. You know what will happen if you do.'

'Please do not do this,' the man begs. 'I have done nothing wrong.'

The man has avoided being trialed for treason through the United States intelligence. It is not too much of an inconvenience for the Soldier's handlers. It just means he will be executed on different terms. 'I know nothing about that,' the Soldier says with a shrug. 'I have two options. Both end with you dead, but I don't want to kill your daughter as well. It's your choice where we do this.'

The man chooses to get in the car. Of course he does. 

*

'Look,' Sam says reasonably. 'I don't wanna sound too optimistic, but you say he's snapped outta another couple of episodes over the past few days. Is it possible he'll just, y'know, snap outta this one too and come find us?'

Steve looked down at his salad sandwich, sitting untouched on the plate in front of him. 

'It's not impossible,' Natasha answers. 'It's pretty unlikely. Even if he comes to himself, I would think it improbable that he would seek us out. More likely he'd keep his head down again.'

Stave shakes his head. 'He'd come find me.'

'He didn't before.'

'Things have changed.'

'In a few days?' Natasha frowns. 'I doubt they've changed enough. Don't get me wrong, Steve. He clearly trusts you as much as he is able to trust anyone, right now. But I've been where he is, and you learn to rely on yourself first. You don't form alliances. I'd say best case scenario? He's looking out for number one right now.'

'What's the worst case scenario, then?' Sam asks. 

'He's reporting to someone. Or at least trying to. There is a chance he'll be trying to reach an extraction point that we don't know about. HYDRA probably chocked him full of fail-safes, back-up plans. We've talked about this before. He might not even know where he's going, won't know until he's reached it. Which will make him all the harder to track down.' She pauses. 'Steve, you've got to eat something.'

'I'm not hungry,' Steve replies. Natasha pushes her banana smoothie towards him. 

'At least drink that.'

'I'm fine.'

Sam and Natasha exchange a concerned look. 

'Uh, no offense, man, but you seem to be beating yourself up over this even more than usual.'

'No, I...' Steve buries his face in his hands. 'There's one other thing. It might not make much difference if he's, he's not--'

'Not himself?' 

'Yeah, Nat. But, if he... I know he'll find me, if he can. He's Bucky. He's not always the same Bucky, but he is _Bucky_. And he's fighting to come back.'

'I'm sure that's true, Steve,' Natasha replies hesitantly. 'But we might not know exactly what that entails, not for a while.'

Steve rubs at his eye with the flat of his hand, sighing. 'No, I know.'

'What she's saying, man, is not to get frustrated if it means he doesn't come straight back to _you_.'

Steve huffs. 'Christ, guys, no. I don't think... Look, the thing is, I'm worried that I, that I might have overwhelmed him. Or, pushed him too far. Or--'

'Steve, hey, slow down. What are you talking about?'

'Okay, well, the other night, just before he went AWOL, he told me that he'd been remembering, uh, other things. From before everything, before the war. From home. Uh, he remembered that he had... feelings for me.'

'Ah,' Natasha says, expression carefully impassive. 

Steve swallows. 'That's-- that's okay now.'

Sam rubs his hand over his mouth, looking thoughtful. 'It's probably good for him, overall. Positive emotional and physical contact, that's never bad. But, if he's not all together yet, if he's struggling to come to terms with things, it might've been a bit...'

'Thrown things a bit off balance,' Natasha finishes, frowning. 

'Shit,' Steve groans, burying his face in his hands. 'I wasn't thinking.'

'No, you're fine,' she amends. 'It probably wasn't behind him snapping yesterday morning. The thing we really have to work out, is whether these setbacks are all in his mind, and/or malfunctions in his arm, or whether there is actually someone trying to regain control of him.'

*

Time passes, fruitless. The sun drags it's way through the sky, burning highways. The night pulls a blanket of darkness that can obscure anything that knows how to hide in it. 

*

It is dark where the Winter Soldier is. There is a light bulb, and it flickers overhead, casting unsteady shadows as it sways. The only other light comes from a flickering screen, tilted at an angle up towards the ceiling, but the eyes on the monitor fix on the Soldier. 

'I've been trying to recall you for days.' 

The voice is static-y and hollow. It echoes through the Winter Soldier's blood. He is on his knees on the stone floor, awaiting orders. 

Zola's lips are larger than life as they move, pixelated and interrupted by tracking lines on the screen, like he is just playback on a worn VHS tape. But the way the eyes bore into Bucky proves that he is very much real. 'But you have made it back. Report.'

'I don't remember being here,' the Soldier responds, flat and emotionless. But he can feel something fluttering inside him, something discomforting. 

'No, you wouldn't.' His accent is prickly, sending the Winter Soldier back to memories from long ago. Memories of a time he knew his name – a time when it was all he knew; his name and his serial number. He can remember the way his lips shaped around the words, but can't remember the name itself. 'It does not matter. We shall continue as before. I just need your hands, I have no need of your mind.'

It is a familiar sentiment. The Soldier doesn't move, doesn't respond. 

'All those others,' Zola is saying. 'Those who thought they owned you, passed you around like a tool. Like a weapon, like a toy. They do not realize that you have always been mine, soldier.' 

Head bowed, the Soldier simply nods. 

*


End file.
